An End Of The Year Gift
Another one of my obsessions, Louisa May Alcott, will be getting an American Masters special on December 28 at 9 PM. Evidently we're going to learn that she was another unhappy writer.
Is there any other kind?
Labels: Louisa May Alcott
2 Comments:
Dude. Seriously.
The L.M. Montgomery thing earlier this year just broke my heart. What IS it with authors?! All the drunk, opium-swilling (snorting? Huffing?) men, all the rocks-in-their-pockets, miscarrying, badly married women.
What chance do we have? Is it only great writers who are miserable, or just writers? Perhaps we should either step away from the keyboard or stick to mediocrity.
I thought of L.M. Montgomery when I read the Slate piece on Alcott.
I was aware that Alcott had to support her family, that her father was more into thinking than taking care of his children, and that she had health problems toward the end of her life. That she was unhappy in a sort of unrelated kind of way was news.
I wish I had time to read some of these new books that have been written about her.
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