Early this week I was out of town with my husband. To
celebrate our anniversary, we went to the Biltmore Estate. (I have some photos
at the end of the post.) It was amazing—the history, the architecture and the
forestry. But even more fascinating to me was how many famous people visited,
including authors. Henry James stayed there. Edith Wharton visited. What a
fabulous time they must have had visiting each other and talking about writing.
I could just imagine them discussing (disagreeing over?) the
latest novels, poetry, and philosophies. Perhaps they were a kind of Inklings
group but for literary writers. I admit I became a little jealous of the camaraderie
and the opportunity to share and learn. But then I realized how spoiled I am.
The numbers of books about the life and craft of writing is unparalleled. They
didn’t have On Writing or any of the
host of books that we have. They learned by trial and error—others and their
own.
And as for the camaraderie, if I’m honest with myself, I
probably would have had nothing in common with Henry James. And all we would
have done is argued about adverbs. I abhor adverbs. And he said, “I adore
adverbs; they are the only qualifications I really respect.”
Instead of the opportunity to bicker over adverbs, I have
something better. Thanks to writers’ groups and conferences and the internet, I
have a whole host of writing friends. Think of how easy it is for us to send a
quick email (or even a phone call) for an opinion, a shoulder to cry on, or a
kind “stop whining and write.” Back in the day, you’d have to write and letter
and wait. And wait. And then wait some more.
So I think I’ll keep my word processor, my internet author friends,
and my books on writing. After all, changing clothes four to eight times a day
would be frustrating—I like yoga pants and t-shirts. And the hours of polite
party talk would drive me crazy. Though I wouldn’t mind the eight course meals
at the Biltmore or the servants who take care of everything.
Here’s a photo of me at the Biltmore.
Here I am on the loggia, pretending I'm Edith Wharton. No doubt she wrote while overlooking the Smoky Mountains. (You can get a sense of the view from the reflection on the French doors.)
Be sure to check back on Tuesday when I'll be participating in "Indie-pendence Day," a celebration of indie authors.
