“I put my pants on just like the rest of you—one leg at a time. Except, once my pants are on, I make gold records.”
Christopher Walken as The Bruce Dickinson, SNL “More Cowbell” sketch
Margaret Atwood (Peggy in her personal life) resisted writing her memoirs because she thought her life was not interesting. She was right. Like most great writers, the vast majority of Atwood’s adult life has been spent at a desk. Like most ultra-successful careerpersons, she calls herself a workaholic.
Of course, now that she has bowed to the pressure to write her memoirs in her late 80s, joking that it gave her a chance to get back at her enemies, they are a pleasure to read. I would read an Atwood book about electrical wiring and enjoy it. The audiobook version narrated by the author adds a deadpan delivery that sparks delight.
But if a biography (whether auto- or allo-) recounts the life and times of its subject, the times are more riveting here than the life. Wartime backwoods Canada is just close enough to my own family’s experience that I catch most of her references, but they are certainly a throwback. The way of life in which you must can your own food and sew your own clothes has few comparables now. Even without Atwood’s frequent signposting, it’s not hard to see this girl as the mother of the offbeat, principled, fearlessly frank woman.
But when a writer’s most enduring grudge is against the girl in Grade Four who bullied them, it’s clear that the real excitement in her life is that which she creates on the page. Solitude, routine, and discipline are the fonts of creativity, and any hobnobbing one does with exciting people is generally a consequence of one’s accomplishments, not their source of nourishment.
That’s why it’s so deflating that writers now are picked up largely based on the numbers on their social media platforms. The life you have to paint to gain interest in that arena is the opposite of a writer’s life. There is nothing instagrammable about the reality of writing. There she is! Biting her nails and staring at the wall! I want that duvet she’s wearing!
In fact, the magic of your writing only ignites once you’ve hidden the labor that made it. “Today I charted out the plotting to get Mary from her boarding school into the basement of the newsagents” is not what a reader needs to see before they attempt to suspend disbelief in a fresh novel from their favorite author.
I mean, what did we think Margaret Atwood had been doing?
In a way, I wish other writers would release similarly forthcoming memoirs. “From the year 1998 to 2004, I kept my target of 1,000 words a day on 79 percent of my weekdays, according to my habit tracker, followed by an attempt to meet my step goals and cook for a kid who has suddenly decided she’s a vegetarian”.
I know we’ll never outgrow our fascination with the people behind our favourite books. I just wish we would have more respect for the process that created them, too. Otherwise we’ll end up with the literary drivel we deserve.
Image: Wikimedia Commons
Yes yes yes! Preach!