Way back at the turn of the century (circa 1999), I tentatively ventured into new journalism territory to write an admittedly off-the-top-of-my-head weekly political column for Fox News Online.
(Before I lose any Huffington fans, let me note that I was very obviously a Fox "token liberal." Very token.)
I took great delight back then in describing myself as "Maureen Dowd with a house to clean." Which didn't mean I was Anna Quindlen either, even if it sounded that way. I wrote those columns in four hours flat. I couldn't, in those days, write as often or as reliably as a New York Times columnist. Life was just too difficult and dusting had nothing to do with it. The real truth was that I had some household help but I also had an autistic son suffering one behavioral crisis after another. I was intent on curing that kid - it didn't happen. I was also grateful that my husband had a good job so I didn't have to go out and get one. There was no way I was applying for any big-time journalism gig, not at that moment, anyway.
Also, Maureen seemed to be doing just fine without me.
This morning (2/10) though, I read her column, and wondered if it was time to pack my bags for Washington and, at the least, whisper some sense into her ear.
"Heels Over Hemingway" was, to put it mildly, a real blooper.
By merely trashing women who write what she deems crappy "chick lit," Dowd missed the real story: That most women who try to write non-formulaic books have very little control over how their books are presented. And here's why: Women may buy more books than men. But men sell more books than women.
If Dowd had dug deeper into that pile of pink I am sure she would have found more than few contemporary books she liked because they did not play by the rules.
Full disclosure: She might have found one of mine.
If you are a woman writer who believes that your books should not sit in a drawer unread, the state of affairs in publishing could make you desperate and fearful enough to agree to a pink cover. Even if you have not written a pink cover-type book.
That was exactly what I did when I published my first novel. although I'm not sure that as a fiftyish new novelist with a two-book contract I had much of a choice. If I had said "No Pink," would my publisher have replied: "Of course, dear. Whatever color you want" ?
Here's just one story. My story. If you have one like it please chime in.
A few years ago, as things calmed down a bit at home, I wrote a novel based loosely on my own life. Since I made up many things for the sake of the narrative and for the sake of writing the best fiction I could, I called the book a novel. It was touted -- mostly by me because so few reviewers got the point - as a satire about the perilously fine line between fact and fiction. (This was months before anyone knew about James Frey's subterfuge.) Okay, the book was about love, too. But not unrequited love. Perhaps it was about love a little too requited. (This weekend, as life imitates fiction imitating life, I am sharing my house with five men, all relatives.)
That first novel of mine was called Exclusive - I wanted to call it Lost Tribe of Ronkonkoma, a title rejected by my publisher in part because it did not work with the (pink)? cover under consideration. It was also about journalism and its ethics, the "culture" of Long Island, the partially-forgotten war in Northern Ireland, Basque Separatists, and how the lessons and memories of the Jewish Eastern European shtetl play out today.
Did I mention that it was funny? Well, I was far from the first human being to write funny - not silly - about serious topics.
Silly might be a pink cover. Funny, perhaps shouldn't be pink.
So I went out into the world with a first novel that had a pink cover-outside without pink cover material inside. In an age obsessed with categorization, I couldn't be categorized. Several "Deep Throats," of mine in various publishing houses confirmed what I suspected: Pink did not work for my book. And indeed, when the second novel was ready friends suggested I should be relieved it was being published at all, since sales for the first book were so poor.
Not merely relieved, they said, but honored.
"Honored?" I replied. "I have a contract. I should be honored because they are honoring their contract?"
I was informed by my publisher that almost no money would be spent on publicizing the second novel.
This morning as I read Maureen Dowd's column decrying pink covers, I scanned the headline and wondered what Hemingway would have done?
Maybe he'd say: If you want chick lit, I'll give you chick lit.
Maybe that's also what he did. Maybe Hemingway had it right. Maybe the secret is to write chick-lit but without a pink cover.
Have you reread the Sun Also Rises, lately? I have. Not only does it have skimpy female characters; it has skimpy male ones as well, including a skimpy male protagonist, no pun intended. Jake Barnes is a character with no discernible depth about men, women, love or war. Or even his own deep wound.
As Maureen, herself, reports, even Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar has pink on the cover these days.
So maybe it's time Hemingway got a makeover, too.
Maybe we could simply use up all the pink on him.