This morning at 5:30 AM I ran past the Santa Maria, moored in the river that cuts through Columbus. There she was. This gorgeous replica. I wanted to climb on board and check it out, but what struck me the most is how bright and freshly painted she was. And this is what I felt about Columbus. It is so Nice there; I wanted to climb right on board. I had a wonderful time reading at the JCC. I loved talking to the very funny Doug Dangler for my interview on the local NPR station. The hotel was wide and bright and luxurious. I felt like I was on vacation. Melanie Butter, the JCC Book Fair coordinator, made me laugh and laugh with her stories about her son. And, she left me a treat back at the front desk. Rabbi Howard, who took me out to dinner was fascinating and warm and I told him my whole life story over falafel. All in all, I felt very lucky to be there. And grateful that Woman is giving me these opportunities to travel and meet such great people. And see new places. Ohio State is Really Amazing. I think it is bigger than the town I live in.

I was thinking about Mary Wollstonecraft (If you are new to my blog, dear reader, I am writing a book about M.W.). What would she think of that giant inflated pumpkin? (appalled, I think). Would she be as interested in peering into strangers’ houses as I am? (yes, I am sure of this) Would she have taken her little daughter trick or treating? Would she eat too much candy? Did she ever overeat? Does she haunt people? (this, while walking past the graveyard). I am not sure we would be friends. She was bossy and competitive. Abrasive and self-righteous. I do not want her to haunt me. But I love her, that is, I love her dead and as an icon. I like to think that we would have been friends. But I am not so sure. She would have told me what to do all the time. Or envied me. I would avoid her, not answer her calls. Then, she would really hate me. On the other hand, she might have liked how much I admire her. And maybe that would smooth over our rough patches.

The Rape of Proserpine painted on their ceiling? You know the myth — Pluto, god of the underworld sees a beautiful maiden, snatches her away from her mother, Demeter, to have her as his wife. I know there’s that famous sculpture by Bernini. I know it’s a famous mythological moment, but it seems an uncomfortable one to live with. Persephone weeping, Pluto raping. Still, if you were a rich lord and lady of the Protestant Ascendancy in Ireland at the end of the 18th century this is precisely the image you would hire painters to paint for you in your castle. At least, that is what Lord and Lady Kingsborough had gilded onto their ceiling in their castle. Any notion that this myth might pertain to English behavior in Ireland was lost on them. What interests me, though, is that this image was one of the first things that their new governess (who was named Mary Wollstonecraft) saw when she entered the great hall. What a collision of tastes. I am also wondering if I have to re-tell the myth for my reader. I don’t think so —

I am wondering when this word was first used for female complaints. Personally, I feel vapor-ish at the moment. And I am not alone. It turns out that even Mary Wollstonecraft had vapors. Also, she complained all the time about being depressed and having pains in her side. If I were a governess, I would complain too. As it is, I am home writing with only a partially eaten chocolate cake for company. Never a wise thing. Now I have a headache from too much sugar inhalation. Mary W. has a headache, too. She has just fainted in church.

I had a long visit with an old professor of mine yesterday. I brought my twelve year old who was awed by the grandeur of the event. As for me, I was amazed that my teacher still looks the same as he did when I used to work for him. He praised my new book. I wept. I told him about the hate mail I have gotten. We talked about his new book and my struggle with learning Aramaic. My favorite thing he said was that he was suffering from a kind of insanity, also known as grandparent-hood. Afterwards, I felt blessed and that perhaps my books are worthwhile enterprises — a rare feeling. I wonder why I discount moments like these and instead focus on all the mistakes I make and all the people who have not understood or liked my work.

Here’s the link on TruthDig

and Mary Wollstonecraft. met each other when Mary was only twenty-four and Abigail was a middle aged matron who had told John to “Remember the Ladies.” Well, that’s what I think at least. No one can really prove they met, but there’s all sorts of evidence to support a friendship. The best point is that they both went to the same church when John was appointed Ambassador to England right after the Revolution and the Adams moved to London. How could they Not know each other, especially since the church was tiny. Actually, it was a Unitarian Meeting House called the Gravel Pit. The kind of people who went there were the kinds of people who boycotted sugar to protest the slave trade. I love Unitarians. I am glad to see they haven’t changed over the years. The Adams would follow MW’s work and celebrate it. In later years, John would tease Abigail by calling her a “Wollstonecraft disciple.”
What I find uncanny about this is just ten days ago I was walking past the lilacs Abigail planted in Quincy. I was admiring her china and gazing out her windows, wondering what she saw. Discoveries like this make me feel I am meant to be writing this book — a sentimental and superstitious idea, perhaps. But still one of my favorite thoughts, that it is still possible to feel the currents and hear the gossip of the summer of 1785, June, in particular,which was when the Adams were in the same town as MW. If the walls would only dissolve. If just one of those women would speak to me. Though I am terrified at the thought of ghosts, so actually I hope they don’t.

Mary W. meets Anna Barbauld — the 18th century literary star I had never heard of until last week — at a dinner party. Now I really have to read Mrs. B carefully. Also I love the title of Mary’s first book: Thoughts on the Education of Daughters: with Reflections on Female Conduct, in the More Important Duties of Life. In many ways, this could be the title for all her subsequent work. I feel like one of her daughters.

There’s the conventional silence feminists talk about: women’s voices silenced or not listened to. The famous example is the classroom where men talk and women don’t. But there is also the simple silence of what is Not said in a story or piece of literature. When I am reading, I check the margins and gaps. I try to remember to look at what is not there. Kind of an impossible task. But still, it’s as important to notice who is not speaking as who is, or who is Not in the scene or what scene is not even included. Often, the silent one is a woman or a marginalized person. Sometimes the missing scene tells us more than all the scenes that are included. For example, the reconciliation scene between Sarah and Abraham after Egypt (after he’s told her to lie to save his own skin) does not exist. Without this scene, the couple is in a curious kind of limbo. Is Abraham sorry? Is Sarah angry? Does she forgive him? Is he guilty? This technique helped me many times when I was working with the Hebrew Bible. Mary Wollstonecraft is a different kettle of fish, though. She is extremely voluble. And bossy, too. It seems like she talks about everything. But soon I will start to see what she is Not saying. At least I hope I will. Where are the gaps? Where are the secrets hiding?

of recovering lost women writers has become increasingly important to me. My mother told me that a friend of hers, a retiring high school English teacher, had never heard of Anne Bradstreet. This means that generations of students have graduated from her classroom never having heard of Bradstreet. I know that compared to world hunger this is not a catastrophe, but I hate it. Then, yesterday I discovered a woman I had never heard of. Me. My specialty is hearing of women no one else knows — how could I not know Anna Barbauld? In her time, she was More distinguished than her younger friends, Wordsworth and Coleridge who admired her so much that they took most of their ideas from her ideas. They decided to re-shape poetry, because she said that was what poets should be doing. Later in life, they repudiated her for being too radical. Yes, too radical. Sadly, because they became the anointed ones, their opinions are the ones we have inherited. So, they made it. She didn’t. I am going to read her and see what I think. I would like to make up my own mind and not swallow the ideas of famous men. I hope I love her.