It’s fairly wonderful, at least from a feminist stand-point, to see how much the stakes have lowered for the female heroes of novels since then, who either don’t need to leave their husbands to fulfill their ambitions, or who are free to do it without facing the existential and financial turmoil that a similar character in the 1970s might face.
But are the books as good without that turmoil? And aren’t their some cases where it is better to leave? Do I have to turn in my feminist card for asking these questions?
There is something very eerie about the way one book can lead you into another.
I prefer the term “magical.”
March to your alphabetical shelf. If you’ve done this enough, you know where your book should be just by scanning for the landmarks. You’re always about two inches to the left of the bestseller with the trippy yellow spine, and a few inches to the right of the Pulitzer winner with the naked sailor. You don’t see your book. Be simultaneously devastated and relieved. Because nobody loves you, but also you don’t have to make yourself offer to sign stock.
A lot of authors out there, especially debut authors, don’t think of signing stock as such a chore.
Thousands of readers have written her and begged her to keep the story going. Some have taken to taunting Ms. Harris in emails and online forums, saying she’ll regret her decision. One fan threatened to commit suicide if the ending doesn’t meet her expectations.
This must be something like what George R.R. Martin goes through between books. Patience is a virtue, people.
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