Finding the Woman in Literature

F. Scott Fitzgerld was one famous American male author I never checked out until my late twenties. I remember reading his great stories and then writing about my perspectives. The more I read, the more I began to see F. Scott Fitzgerald as larger than life. For awhile, I put him on one great big rosy literary cloud in my world. Cupid’s arrow had struck. I saw this male writer as an inspiration for me to write reviews on literature. This writer’s world became real to me. I never felt as if I could touch this writer’s world, though. I created F. Scott Fitzgerald’s writings as sacred as famous paintings.

And, soon after I read a biography of F. Scott Fitzgerald, that man on a cloud sat locked up in a prison of literary plagiarists. This man has sat in this place since I read the truth. The cold, ugly truth made me feel F. Scott Fitzgerald’s contribution to American literature was deceitful, dishonorable, and disgusting. He did not gain literary success through his own imagination. I must say that Zelda Fitzgerald, his creative wife who suffered from schizophrenia, exhibited more tolerance with this poor excuse of a husband than I ever would have. As a husband, F. Scott Fitzgerald did not take Zelda seriously nor did they have a fairy tale marriage. Zelda wound up moving into an institution in order to keep her sanity. The marriage produced a daughter named Scottie, but her ever-loving father did everything in his power to hide Zelda’s mental illness from her. This child loved her father and thought the world of him. As far as Scottie was concerned, her father could do no wrong. Zelda, however, could.

The Fitzgerald marriage is not portrayed in a conventional fashion. For example, the Fitzgeralds were evicted from several homes and hotels. During the young glitzy-glamorous days, they lived large. The couple would cause embarrassing scenes in public. The couple relied too much on alcohol and never took responsibility for their actions. As a critic, I see this behavior as manic, insane, and not too pleasant for any friend or acquaintance to want to be around.

In her early years, Zelda was extremely talented. She swam well, sang in plays, practiced ballet, and composed stories. On the downfall, her family suffered with the mental illness schizophrenia.  The dominant allele carrying this gene passed down to Zelda, and the family somehow forgot to mention this to F. Scott Fitzgerald. I am sure this was not intentional. Here was a beautiful young lady named Zelda who used her beautiful mind to overcome obstacles set before her. The family wanted this young man to see what they saw in Zelda. There was so much more to Zelda than schizophrenia. Zelda was full of life. She basked in the glory of sunlight. She was comfortable and happy learning ballet and how to dance better.

In contrast to her husband’s unsuccessful attempt at Princeton, Zelda never attended college to advance a writing career. Zelda kept a journal of her amazing writings. The Fitzgeralds lived at a time when the wife’s property also belonged to her husband. Zelda’s rich mind became the ownership of F. Scott Fitzgerald. Every story F. Scott Fitzgerald stole from his wife’s personal journal entries became his literary success. Zelda continued to write and the money kept coming in. Instead of going to college at Princeton or elsewhere, F. Scott Fitzgerald chose to take the easy route to worldly success.

Zelda’s last years were spent in an institution. While she still lived at home, F. Scott was successful in persuading Zelda’s teacher to have her stop pursuing a career as a ballerina. While institutionalized, Zelda’s one of psychiatrists suggested a divorce would be in the best interest for his client. F. Scott refused to grant a divorce to his wife. The reason was obvious to readers. If F. Scott lost his literary genius, there would be no more books written or money coming in.

In the past, I have normally not mentioned that a person with schizophrenia suffers. In Zelda’s case, suffering does not provide a sense of justice for what she experienced. Under several psychiatrists care, Zelda tried new anti-psychotic medications. She underwent ECT treatments. ECT treatment disfigured her face as time passed. While living in the institution, Zelda became obsessed with religion.

Zelda was taken from this world too soon, in my opinion. A fire broke out in the institution Zelda lived at that ended several lives. Zelda did not survive. Even though I did not know this strong female writer, I still mourn her loss. As a woman who wakes up in the morning to write, I can better relate to Zelda. This brilliant wrote her heart out each day and she never received much deserved credit. This leaves me with an empty feeling for the situation. My great respect for F. Scott as a great writer was forever lost in the ashes of Romanticism. I was fooled as a reader into believing this great man imagined scenes, plots, and characters that moved me with words of maserpieces. That was perhaps the first cruel flirtation with realism I experienced in literature.

This cruel experience would definitely not be my last. There have been days when I wish I had Ambrose Bierce’s childlike instinct to run away from literature altogether much the way he wrote “Chickamauga.” As I have mentioned, there was no gut instinct warning me to run. Much like this young male character, I have run with literature during my life. Some literature can be devastation.  One story in particular, “The Storyteller,” by Leslie Silko Marmon, made want to take showers back to back to get rid of the dirty feelings. Some stories wake me up inside and want to advocate for other women. This terminology is more politically correct with the alienated self. I honestly do not understand why several male and female literary characters grab my attention. These characters have been beaten, bruised, and abandoned from their society. The tenderness their creators show with their development often times makes me forget our boundaries of societies for a time. As I reflect and then write over these characters, I do experience realism. There is realism in being able to understand these characters have been scorned and victimized by their society.

Realism in literature becomes an uncomfortable situation for me personally. There have been days when I have cried over men and women’s tragic situations. I have read graphic situations as plots thicken. I have read about tragic lives of musicians, writers, and founders of our world religions. Gregor Mendel, the Father of Genetics, even experienced dark days. There have been times as I wrote over stories for literature courses when I felt too stressed out by these dark, depressing situation. Literature overpowered me. I would spend hours crying over another creator’s literary baby who had found its way into my nurturing arms. I would sometimes cry, “Why me? I am not this strong of a woman.”

As much as I have tried to escape from realism, there is really nowhere else to go. The ever-comforting Romanticism’s safety balloon has been popped long ago. I have learned to accept realism. The process has not been easy in the least bit. This is completely my fault for seeking out the truth in this world. I deserved to know the truth in everything I possibly could find. The bad truth could not be denied anymore, nor was I childlike. I wanted to see this world as it really appeared to others. For years I had denied the existence that every action had a negative or positive consequence. I took comfort in having an imaginary bubble protecting me from the evils of this world. The more I have read about decisions other women have made, the more I am realize similarities between us.

During my summer course of Composition II and Responding to Literature in 2001, the world of writing and literature became real to me. At the end of my Composition II professor told me he would be happy to edit a book if I ever decided to write one. This English professor was somebody students feared. The professor’s grading seemed harsh to students. This professor demanded students apply themselves completely to the writing process. This is the only way literary success can happen.

I will be the first to be real about the writing process. The writing process involves a student forming ideas that will branch out into bigger ideas. I suggest a student write everything so nothing is lost. This process is called brainstorming. I would include insight and ideas from friends, family, and possibly social networking at the student’s discretion. Creating new, unique ideas can come from several places. I would gather several batches of ideas. In fact, this is what I use as I write.

I remember reading several stories in Responding to Literature. Since the class was small, we participated in groups. We discussed assigned literature, wrote responses, and watched some movies made from literature works. This course made me free of the world. This course excited me beyond words and created a drive in me. I wrote several pages for the final exam and felt confident as a student.

When I read more into the world of literature, I learn the field was once a man’s world. A man could become a writer, an editor, or the owner of a magazine company. There was no place for a woman except in her home. If a determined woman wanted to succeed in the world of literature, she had to be depended on networking to find a successful male writer or publisher. A woman could not be independent as a writer, editor or publisher during this time. This co-dependent feeling did little for a woman’s strong feelings of self-confidence and independence.

The last name of my pseudonym comes from a female literary who felt compelled to seek out a highly respected male writer who would publish a story she wrote. In her story “Miss Grief,” Constance Fenimore Woolson creates a strong female character named Aaronna Moncrief whose only worldly possession is her literature. This is beautiful to a reader like me but the male narrator’s snobby perception of this woman and his butler are unforgiving and judgmental.

In the beginning, the male narrator describes himself in a justly description. This man has come into money that led him to become stuck and egotistical as a successful. He makes a point of boasting about his own success. Returning home, this narrator learns his butler, Simpson, has received several visits from a woman named “Miss Grief” along with her female. Simpson describes Miss Grief as an undesirable older lady who is not wealthy.

 Miss Grief makes another visit to the narrator’s home. She surprises him by memorizing his literary works. Miss Grief requests his assistance with getting her literary work published. At first, the narrator accepts the request out of pity. The narrator does not believe this woman is capable of creating a literary masterpiece from the rags she wears as clothes. This woman asserts herself that she does not her writing to be editing with any new wording or punctuation mark.

The narrator takes his time with sending Miss Grief’s story to his male editors and friends. One friend sent the story back wanting a character written out of the story. The narrator ignores the owner’s literary warning to change in her story. He tries to rewrite the story without the character and realizes she was a literary success. The story would not be successful without this character.

As this narrator begins to realize this elderly woman really is smart, she changes to him. No longer is she a woman of poverty who tried to visit him several time with no answer. There is still shame in the narrator’s view of this woman. The stories cannot be published and the narrator lies to poor Aaronna Moncrief before her death. He lies that the stories will be published and her stories are wonderful.

The narrator continues to show his arrogance by not being proud of Moncrief’s literary works. He does not mention them to his high society friends nor does he mention them to his elegant wife. Even through this experience, the narrator does not change. The narrator continues to be the stuck up Prince of Camelot. He does not change this lack of human compassion.

When I read literature by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I put him on one big literary cloud. The way Aaronna Moncrief did with this famous male writer. Since Moncrief did not have the funds to pick up a local copy of the newspaper to read about him in the society column, she probably did not realize the real man was completely different than the famous author. From a reader’s perspective, the real man is full of greed, arrogance, and a deceased relative’s financial success that has been handed down to him. The man has nothing behind this mask of himself.

One thing I enjoy about Aaronna Moncrief’s role is her love of the literary world. I am assuming this writer was never married or had children. I stand corrected as she had no children except her literature babies.  I am able to understand the work and effort a person puts into writing. This woman wound up writing several pieces of literature. There was no dark color describing an object that foreshadowed events in Miss Grief the way the minister’s black glove foreshadowed his true self in “How I Went Out to Service” by Louisa May Alcott.

While reading literature, paying attention to detail is extremely important. For example, in “Miss Grief,” I sense there may be some jealousy from the butler Simpson. When Miss Grief goes out, her maid is always by her side. When the narrator travels the world, Simpson has to stay in his absolute role at the residence. I think Simpson questions his value and place within society.

At the end of “Miss Grief,” the maid turns out to her foreign aunt. From the aunt’s harsh words to the narrator, her talented niece has been mistreated by men of the literature field. This is true of Zelda Fitzgerald. How many times has Miss Grief been through rejection after rejection? How many times has this aunt warned her niece about writers? Apparently this aunt has always been by her niece’s side and watched her dreams and spirits broken by other male writers.

In modern times, women writers can create free websites and devote ourselves to different causes, daily lives, or health problems. We do not have to depend on literary men who may reject us. If we do not like our works, we are able to edit them ourselves. We have learned how to become self-reliant. We find our support networks that provide positive or negative feedback for our literary babies. We engage ourselves to this completely new world of writing. We do not write our pieces thinking about how much profit we will gain from our works. We sacrifice our precious time to writing. Sometimes writing can be a difficult choice we must make.

When I reflect on Aaronna Moncrief’s character as a writer, it is easy to say she could have done better. She tried to do better but remained unsuccessful with the literary men who could have found resources to publish. I was not even thought of in 1888 when “Miss Grief” first appeared in Woolson’s world. I am unable to imagine living in a world that has no form of fine literature from the seventeenth century to the nineteenth century. I am also unable to think about the alternative courses I could have chosen in college to complete my Associates degree in Liberal Studies.

It has been a few years ago I closed the last hardcover written by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Since reading his books, I have learned to read a writer’s biography. In some upper level literature courses, including a writer’s history is welcome while others discourage this. In spite of this, I still believe a reader should spend the time reading a writer’s biography. From reading a writer’s biography, I am able to learn more about his or her past, literary influences, where the inspiration for a story originated from, and possibly read more literary works written by this writer.

As I conclude my writing this morning, I am still trying to beat a cold to death with Vick’s Vapo Rub, chicken noodle soup, and fluids. I have several sick loved ones and our nation in prayer for this terrible Flu season to stop. I have been resting and taking care of myself. I am trying hard to make my husband does not get sick again this winter. In our marriage during the wintertime, we continue to pass our colds to each other. I guess that is the ultimate love bug. If we did not truly love each other, we would not be sick together. Perhaps this gives me a great reason to look forward to cold winters! I would much rather be sick with my husband than be sick without him.