This Eisner Award-winning graphic novel adaptation was published in 2022 by Dark Horse Comics, based in Milwaukie, Oregon.
Damn!
I sat down yesterday with “Chivalry,” a fantasy graphic novel adaptation of a short story by the English writer Neil Gaiman, and inhaled the entire thing (just 60 pages) in a little over an hour.
I’ve never been drawn to fantasy as a genre or to graphic illustrations. But then, I’ve never come across anything quite so enchanting in story and style.
I’m going to have keep an open mind about graphic novels and the like.
“Chivalry” is a sweet story about an elderly British widow named Mrs. Whitaker, who buys what turns out to be the Holy Grail from a second-hand shop. She cleans and polishes the cup, puts it on her mantelpiece and before she knows it, she’s answering the door to a handsome, ancient knight, Sir Galaad, who’s arrived with his magnificent white steed.
Mrs. Whitaker opens the door to Sir Galaad, an ancient knight who’s come to visit the British widow. (Credit: Colleen Doran)
During this and subsequent visits, Galaad offers to trade various ancient relics for the ancient goblet — but Mrs. Whitaker won’t bite. As the bartering continues, the story offers humor, friendship, a bit of flirting, and reminiscences of her late husband, Henry.
It is positively delightful.
Gaiman, 62, is a prodigiously talented writer of short fiction, novels, comic books, graphic novels, audio theatre, and a screenplay. His works include the comic book series The Sandman, which was adapted into a series on Netflix.
The scenes are gorgeously rendered by Colleen Doran, an American cartoonist-illustrator who spent years on this book. Using watercolor and an eye for exacting detail, Doran brings the action to life in warm hues and bold text.
Last year, Gaiman and Doran won the Eisner Award for Best Adaptation from Another Medium for “Chivalry” at San Diego Comic Con. The Eisners are prizes given for creative achievement in American comic books, considered as the comics industry’s equivalent to the Academy Awards.
The wickedly talented team of author Neil Gaiman and illustrator Colleen Doran.
I waited a whole year from the time I received “Chivalry” before I made time to sit down with it.
A friend, Ioana Patringenaru, who lives in San Diego and regularly attends Comic Con, sent it to me around this time last year as her contribution to a book exchange among contributors to Voices of August, my annual guest blog project.
Now that I’ve read it and thoroughly enjoyed it, I’m going to bring “Chivalry” to this year’s VOA meetup with the hope that someone will take it and love it just as much as I did.
If you’ve paid any attention to my personal blog in the past couple of months, you know that I’ve shared the space with 30 other writers from around the United States and beyond.
That’s the idea behind Voices of August: a different essay each day from a friend, family member or former co-worker.
Every year, we in the VOA community vote for our favorite pieces. These are the seven that moved us in 2022. If you haven’t read any until now, please take a look and consider leaving a comment on one or more. The writers will appreciate it and, as head wrangler, so will I.
In no particular order, these were the most-liked:
Tammy Ellingson – “Summer School with Dad”. A touching account of how the author, ever and always the teacher, pulled out her bag of tricks to keep her 86-year-old widowed father mentally and physically active.
Jina S. Bazzar – “Closed doors, open windows”. An illuminating piece by a Palestine-based mother and fantasy-fiction author about the process of losing one’s vision, only to realize you don’t need your eyes to live a fulfilling life.
Mary Pimentel – “I’ve never been good at love letters”. A fly-on-the-wall piece by a recent college grad, now living in France, that reads like a short story, describing a barista’s techniques, overhearing conversation between customers, and thinking back to a past relationship.
Jennifer Brennock – “Undertow”. A splendid take on the phenomenon of big families by someone who was the last born in a family of five. What these big families possess in cohesion, she says, they often lack in supporting individualism and make a person feel small.
Elizabeth Hovde – “Words not only have meaning, they mean a lot to me”. A professional writer asserts that words not only have power and meaning, but are central to everything in her life — work, entertainment, therapy and comfort.
Jane Pellicciotto – “Pass the gravy”. From a first-time VOA writer, a lovely and sensual reminiscence about family driving trips from the Maryland suburbs to visit the author’s Italian grandmother in New York City.
Susan Scharf – “Red is our color”. From another VOA rookie, a sad but sweet piece about the red high-top Converse tennis shoes that the author’s late sister gave her more than 30 years ago and which today trigger a flood of memories that always leave her smiling.
Thirteen writers contributed essays to Voices of August 2022. Far left trio: Lynn St. Georges, Eric Scharf, Luisa Anderson. Back row: Elizabeth Hovde (sunglasses), Eric Wilcox, George Rede, Bob Ehlers, John Killen. Front row: Susan Scharf, Tammy Ellingson, Michele Lee Bernstein, Jane Pellicciotto, Tim Akimoff.
Is it possible for an annual gathering of friends to get better each year? I think it just might be.
Saturday’s meetup of Voices of August writers and their significant others left me feeling pretty damn good.
We had a group of 20 people show up at Migration Brewing Co. in Northeast Portland to celebrate the 11th year of the monthlong guest blog project I launched as a way to expand and diversify the range of voices and topics on my Rough and Rede personal blog. In short, each day features a different writer’s essay on a subject of their choice.
The late afternoon event spilled into the early evening hours as we renewed friendships, made new ones, swapped books in a first-ever book exchange and, not least, had ourselves some fine beverages and food. Of the group, 13 had written an essay for this year’s blog and 7 others were spouses, partners or guests.
I don’t often use the word blessed but I think it applied on Saturday. We were blessed with great weather. Blessed with great friends. Blessed with common interests to bring us together – reading, writing, books, food and beer, to mention just a few.
From what I could tell, people were genuinely enjoying each other’s company, breaking off in pairs or threes or fours to talk about … who knows? I wasn’t part of those conversations, but it was pretty cool to see people from so many walks of life, representing different generations, ethnicities and interests chatting so comfortably with each other.
Editor’s note: Was too busy talking to whip out the camera until many had already left. These fine people are just a cross-section of those who Make Voices of August Great. (Click on photos to view captions.)
***
Looking back at this year’s group of essays, I was struck by three things:
1. The variety of topics: family, food, health, books and even words themselves. I was delighted that we began and ended the month with an image of a first-time grandpa holding his granddaughter. Al Rodriguez snuggled with his “little sprout,” Lila. John Morgan introduced us to “Hazy IPA,” little Hazel Lynn, named for his late wife Mary Lynn.
John Morgan with Hazel Lynn, aka Hazy IPA.Al Rodriguez with Lila, aka the little sprout.
2. The range of contributors: Writers were based in 7 states (California, Oregon, Washington, Colorado, New Mexico, Ohio and New Jersey) and 2 foreign countries (France, Palestine), and ranged in age from 18 to 75-ish. We also had 5 VOA rookies.
3. The quality of comments: How gratifying to see the back-and-forth between writers and readers reflecting empathy, intelligence, encouragement, humor and, most of all, a sense of connectedness in a world where we suffer from too little of it.
Every year, I’m tempted to ask myself: Was the best year yet in terms of the content? This year, I’m happy to say that at least a couple of fellow writers beat me to it, saying those very words. “Best year yet.” All of you who wrote for VOA 2022 had a part in that, so I thank you.
Every year, we also vote on our favorites. This doesn’t mean “best” in terms of the craft of writing; rather, it means whatever resonated with us for whatever reason. Voting can be an ordeal for some, with so many stirring essays to choose from. How is it possible to choose just four favorites from so many possibilities?
Nevertheless, seven essays emerged as this year’s favorites. Each one of the authors will receive a gift card to a local bookstore, along with the satisfaction of knowing what they wrote – what they slaved over – connected with readers.
In no particular order, these were the most-liked:
Tammy Ellingson – “Summer School with Dad” A touching account of how the author, ever and always the teacher, pulled out her bag of tricks to keep her 86-year-old widowed father mentally and physically active.
Jina S. Bazzar – “Closed doors, open windows” An illuminating piece by a Palestine-based mother and fantasy-fiction author about the process of losing one’s vision, only to realize you didn’t need your eyes to live a fulfilling life.
Mary Pimentel – “I’ve never been good at love letters” A fly-on-the-wall piece by a recent college grad, now living in France, that reads like a short story, describing a barista’s techniques, overhearing conversation between customers, and thinking back to a past relationship.
Jennifer Brennock – “Undertow” A splendid take on the phenomenon of big families by someone who was the last born in a family of five. What these big families possess in cohesion, she says they often lack in supporting individualism and make a person feel small.
Elizabeth Hovde – “Words not only have meaning, they mean a lot to me” A professional writer asserts that words not only have power and meaning, but are central to everything in her life — work, entertainment, therapy and comfort.
Jane Pellicciotto – “Pass the gravy” From a first-time VOA writer, a lovely and sensual reminiscence about family driving trips from the Maryland suburbs to visit the author’s Italian grandmother in New York City.
Susan Scharf – “Red is our color” From another VOA rookie, a sad but sweet piece about the red high-top Converse tennis shoes that the author’s late sister gave her more than 30 years ago and which today trigger a flood of memories that always leave her smiling.
Did you notice, folks? That’s a clean sweep by seven women. Awesome.
***
Finally, an editor’s award of my own goes to Eric Wilcox, a longtime friend, neighbor and member of this community who’s written an essay every year, come to the annual meetups regularly, and who this year commented like never before on others’ posts. His account of the weird experience of celebrating his 65th birthday in his childhood home, after it had become an Airbnb rental, also drew several votes as a favorite essay: “Can you go back home again? Yes and no”
Nice to have VOA 2022 in the rearview mirror. Can’t wait to see what awaits all of us in 2023.
I could have posted a photo of a sunrise or sunset, a forest path or placid lake, maybe even an open book, to convey the sense of calm that I hope invites readers into this online space year after year.
But you know what? I think a heart-and-mind image may capture the essence of Voices of August even better.
After all, we’ve just treated ourselves to a month of guest blog posts that touched our hearts and tugged at our minds in a way that resembles a digital magazine. I mean, think of it. Essays on a variety of engaging topics — family, health, food, books, life, death. Plus, photos a-plenty, a poem, a couple of songs, a trio of YouTube videos, and links to a lot more content.
In this 11th year of organizing VOA, I published submissions from up and down the West Coast, the Midwest and Southwest and abroad (Palestine and France). We welcomed five first-time contributors to our community. And we engaged with each other the way caring, thinking adults do, reacting with empathy, humor, congratulations and our own anecdotes.
All of it taken together made me think once again of the way I’ve described VOA to newcomers. It’s like opening a Christmas present every day of the month.
So now it’s time to put on my hat as VOA Elections Chief and Head Vote-Wrangler.
Starting today, please do your part to help choose our favorite essays from this year’s contributions to VOA 2021. Deadline is Sunday, Sept. 11. That’s a full 10 days from now to catch up with anything you missed and drop a comment or two.
To make your voice heard, send me an email listing your four (not just three, but four!) favorite pieces among the 31 blog posts. No need to put them in rank order. It’s difficult enough choosing just four. Voting guidelines are below.
As always, thanks to everyone for setting aside time to write, read and comment on this year’s body of work. I know I speak for every writer in welcoming the feedback, whether on Facebook or (especially) on the individual blog posts. The conversations enrich the overall experience for everyone.
Let’s get to it, OK?
Here are the rules:
Who can vote. As with previous years, anyone who has written a guest blog (this year or previously) or who is simply a regular reader of VOA can vote for four favorite pieces. You decide if you’ve read enough of this year’s contributions to cast a ballot.
Criteria. There are none other than your own standards. What grabbed your attention? What resonated with you? What made you laugh or cry? What challenged your assumptions? What made you see things differently?
How to vote. Take some time to review the month’s posts here at the VOA 2022 index page and then send the titles and authors of your four favorites to me at ghfunq@msn.com
My grief over Mary Lynn’s death is the best thing God has ever given me.
I mean no disrespect for Mary Lynn in life or in death by that statement. I acknowledge disrespect for her in the years leading to her death by dwelling on irritations and traits in which I found fault and over which I harbored resentment and a wish we were apart. That wish was never so strong to act upon as I knew my responsibility was to be at her side in her disease and I would never shirk that. I gladly bore it. I loved her through it. But, in a small part of my brain, not my heart, I wanted her to die.
I did not worry about grief as I had several years, especially the last 18 months when she was in a memory care facility, to grieve for her and I knew upon her death grief would be honorably complete.
I could not have been more wrong.
A revelation of unfathomable proportions started at her memorial service. I received hundreds of messages speaking of her, what she had done, what she had meant, what she had inspired. I never knew these things. I knew of them, but I never knew them. I never knew her. I never knew how much I loved her.
Now, in an instant, I did. I was overwhelmed, awestruck, humbled, and ashamed. And full of such profound gratitude at the same time as horrible remorse I break into tears at the very thought of her name or face.
Grief taught me I never knew her. Grief also taught me I never knew me.
(Credit: dreamstime)
As I have taught leadership for so many years, I have constantly thought of the ego being our greatest foe in our work to make a better world. Of course, that is absolutely true. And I now know how shallow that thinking is. I know how shallow my thinking was.
I have consciously wanted to become more selfless. I have worked toward it. I have been proud of my few levels of success.
I wasn’t even close.
I learned in a minuscule time being selfless isn’t denying one’s self-concept any power. It is instead dissolving one’s self-concept so it does not exist anymore. Instead, one becomes a pure channel of love given by God in whatever form one perceives God.
Grief taught me it is that simple and that hard. But grief gave me strength to start a journey I never knew existed. I do not know how far I will get, but I do know I now try with every fiber of my being to go as far as I possibly can singing songs of gratitude to those beloved friends whom I know now served as conduits for God’s love and gifts of profound wisdom. I never knew how much I could love someone until this moment. I never knew how much I could be loved.
I never knew how much I loved Mary Lynn until she died. I suspect you all understand that. I hope you understand in my unexpected real grief I have achieved a level of happiness I could never comprehend before.
No expression of gratitude exists in my knowledge adequate to convey my feelings about it other than to say, “I love you in ways I never knew existed.”
I love you in ways I never knew existed.
***
John Morgan is a fifth-generation Oregon raised in Lebanon. He is a graduate of Willamette University with a degree in political science and urban & regional government. His entire career has been spent in urban planning and city management with time in public employment and private consulting split somewhat evenly. His current professional focus is on facilitation of strategic discussions by city councils and other public leaders. He also is the founder and leader of the annual Chinook Program for Public Leadership.
John is an avid photographer documenting the wonders of Oregon and the Pacific Northwest through which he travels and explores extensively. He is starting his 51st season as a professional ski instructor mostly at Hoodoo. For 27 years he has worked exclusively with athletes with disabilities through the ski school division of Oregon Adaptive Sports. This coming season will be his second as director of the OAS ski school at Hoodoo.
“I celebrated our 48th anniversary by myself this year, about six weeks before Mary Lynn died.”
John Morgan with Hazel Lynn, his first grandchild. Named for Mary Lynn, but he calls her Hazy IPA.
Editor’s note:My friendship with John goes back40-plus years ago when the two us, and fellow VOAer Bob Ehlers, were new dads. All of us belonged to the same babysitting coop in Salem. John and Mary Lynn grew their family to a total of four boys. Both then and now, I’ve appreciated John’s outgoing nature, kindness toward others and devotion to family. He’s taught me a lot about Grace and, now, Grief.
What I wish For You Is a love, That is not necessarily, Predictable, Approved, Celebrated, Foreclosed. But one that has the extravagance of eroticism, That is not, Adolescent, Exploitive, Boring, But has, Creativity, Fun, A story. A love that, Blossoms into Awareness, Takes work, Is a daily practice, Of emotional resonance. Transcends the self, A recognition that, All love is but a mirror of the vastness, And all is important, A cockatiel, a plum tree, a one-eyed cat, A person on the street. And you realize that it’s all Ok,
~
The darkness and the light, That you can stay after all with the Is-ness of things. That you never needed that love anyway, That you were the love, But now that it’s here, It’s quite nice. But if it isn’t, And your brain’s edge, Hijacks your soul, Remember that you are just, Dreaming lucidly, And you can change the narrative. The moon can be eclipsed by the sun, And vice versa, The stars can be rearranged, For there is no ghost in the machine, Everything is merely labeled, And Reality is overrated. And when the love grows old, You don’t have to leave, You can find the newness, As long as you don’t dwell, On the mundane, And the quotidian, But keep the mystery, So the spark stays alive, But it’s ok, if it smolders, To an ember.
~
Because you always have, A rainbow at the bottom of the waterfall, A Rescued puppy, Gorillas in the mist, Crows that eat your Cheerios, The first pomegranate, The ability to run, And feel the wind in your hair, Awe and wonder, A new moment, Once again.
~
Lakshmi and husband Raghu, flanked by the author’s brother and mother.The new graduate, Lakshmi Jagannathan.
From the author:I am thrilled to have graduated from Santa Clara University with an MA in Counseling Psychology. I mastered the art of the 5-minute dash up the stairs, with Lentil-Rice and cereal, cookies and tea. I may miss watching the sunset over the hills as a professor lectured away in a Zoom room, but don’t miss all the papers, deadlines, and exams. I wrote this poem for my kids inspired by my spiritual readings, psychology classes, and observations of life, not to mention through channeling the psychotherapist Esther Perel.
Editor’s note:I’ve known Lakshmi for about 15 years now, ever since she was selected as a Community Writer for The Oregonian’s Sunday Opinion section. Then as now, I’ve been struck by her grace and intelligence. More recently, I’ve marveled at how she has transitioned into a new phase of life after her sons completed college and she relocated to Northern California with her husband Raghu.
I walked into my closet today, and I saw them there. My red high-top Converse tennis shoes. I sit down and hold them. I am transported back over 30 years ago to when my sister Nancy gave them to me. I was in my early thirties. She, being ten years older, was in her early forties.
We were sisters, friends and confidantes. I had casually mentioned to her once that when I got “old,” I was not going quietly into the night. I was going to dress boldly and wear bright red shoes. That would be my trademark. She told me, “Why wait until you’re old?” I laughed and said, “You’re right!” The next time I saw Nancy she gave me a present with a big smile. “It’s a ‘just because’ present,” she told me. I opened it, and there were the bright red high-top Converse tennis shoes. We both burst out laughing. We were ahead of our time; this was long before even the Red Hat Society! We knew the power of red.
We did that a lot — laugh. The things that we could, and would, come up with together to do. Like the time we drove through Creswell in my dark red convertible, with the top down. She drove, and I sat on the top of the back seat in a clown costume, complete with a rainbow wig waving at bystanders. The looks on the faces of the people we passed were hysterical. We laughed so long and hard whenever we reminisced over that escapade.
It was hard to believe that this woman that I laughed and cried with was the same woman who wanted to push me down the outhouse when we went camping as kids.
Our brother lived in Hawaii. When I visited him, I brought back gifts for Nancy and her family. Hers was a beautiful black kimono with a pattern of a reddish-orange Bird of Paradise flower on it. She loved it.
I broke my nose playing softball and had to have surgery. I figured I would be OK on my own. Nancy didn’t. She came down to take care of me. It was a great girls’ time, with comfort food, old movies and a nose infection. I looked like a cross between Karl Malden and Ronald McDonald, with a giant red-tipped nose. She’s the one who called the doctor and got me new meds, knowing that I wasn’t smart enough to do it myself.
Susan Scharf, the fairy godmother, with her late sidekick, Phoebe, the Wonder Dog.
She was always there for me, until my wedding. She kept dragging her feet in getting her maid of honor’s dress made. I couldn’t figure out why, I knew she was happy for me, and she loved Eric. Finally, she told me why she hadn’t gotten her dress made. She wasn’t coming to the wedding. I was crushed.
Then she explained why and I was devastated. She had breast cancer, and her surgery was scheduled four days after our wedding. She didn’t want to tell me sooner because she knew I would cancel my wedding. The wedding went on as planned and from a bright red phone booth in Edinburgh, Scotland, I called to see how her surgery went. It was successful! I looked forward to more adventures together.
I would call Nancy as she was going through chemo, and we would come up with outlandish ideas of things we would do when she was better.
Whenever I came back to Oregon to visit my family, we would book girls’ time. It was never long enough. We still continued to talk, laugh and make plans.
She was there with me, through all thirty-plus hours of labor, waiting for her niece. Nancy bought my daughter, Ariel, her first flowers. They came in a red vase. So special!
My family would come back to Oregon every summer to visit. My sister would keep our daughter for a couple of nights so Eric and I could get away alone. Nancy loved Ariel, probably more than she loved me by this point!!
Susan and Nancy.
Then one year Nancy “wasn’t really up to it.” She told us at the last minute, so I kinda saw red. I had no idea why she didn’t tell me sooner. A few months later she told me why. They had found multiple tumors at the base of her skull.
They were going to try radiation to shrink them. I reminded her of all the successes she had accomplished! But when we hung up, it was my eyes that were red. We made plans to call and talk in a couple days because she wasn’t feeling well. I got an overwhelming urge to call her on Saturday, but I didn’t. What difference would a day make, right? I woke up to a call from my nephew Sunday morning. My sister had died Saturday night.
Nancy wore navy blue, white and red to her funeral. I delivered her eulogy. There were a lot of red eyes in the audience, especially mine.
Now, 24 years after her funeral, I am here still with great memories that always leave me smiling and my bright red Converse high-tops inspiring me not to give in to old age.
***
Susan Scharf: always smiling.
Susan Scharf was born and reared in Eugene, Oregon. Yet, she’s a Beaver Believer, having gotten her B.S. from Oregon State University in 1976. After graduation, she started working at the Post Office, where she met her husband Eric. She worked there for 20 years and through two cross country moves.
“When our daughter Ariel started school, I quit work to be a stay-at-home mom. When she started middle school, I enrolled in George Washington University where I got my Masters degree in Counseling. I worked as a school counselor until Eric and I retired in 2015. Now my time is spent in volunteer work, with: an educational society, the Genealogical Forum, and as a Court Appointed Special Advocate. The rest of my time is devoted to making Eric laugh, and enjoying Tabor Dog Park with Alli, our Carolina Dog.”
Editor’s note: I met Susan through my wife’s personal training business. She was a client of Lori’s, and their professional relationship soon became one of personal friendship. Inevitably, they wanted their husbands to meet and, happy to say, Eric and I got along great as well. Although Susan spends much of her time making him laugh, I’m grateful that she spends another chunk of it making Lori and me laugh, too. She is one funny lady.
The first part of the title “How I spent my Covid staycation” is more than a little tongue-in-cheek.
I’m a writer and editor who works at home. I was lucky. My work life didn’t change much during the pandemic. My social life, my life away from my laptop and desk and home office, changed a lot.
I once had a reasonably full social calendar. As Covid dragged on, my calendar featured month upon month of empty space apart from weekly work deadlines. For the past several years I was too busy to read as much as I used to when I was young. Too many commitments took the place of my beloved books.
When I could no longer see friends, go to restaurants, work out at the gym, travel, etc. (you know the drill) I began reading again in earnest.
My reading life took an abrupt turn south in time when I discovered the book Square Haunting by Francesca Wade. Wade eloquently describes the lives of five women writers who resided at Mecklenburgh Square, an elegant green enclave in Bloomsbury, London, between 1916 and 1940. Aristocratic modernist Virginia Woolf, mystery writer Dorothy L. Sayers, poet Hilda Doolittle (H.D.), classicist Jane Ellen Harrison, and historian Eileen Power all lived there at one time or another, although they didn’t know each other.
Wade’s moving exploration of the lives of these brilliant women set me on a course of discovery. These authors were brave, intellectual, and provocative. I began my new commitment to reading with them. Their life stories resonated. Their books are highly readable and have much to teach us about changing times, crumbling social structures, and having the courage to rise to the occasion.
There was a time between the wars when British women writers enjoyed international acclaim. Born around the time of the intersection of the Victorian and Edwardian eras, they had a keen sense of observation and the skill to reveal hard truths lurking just below the surface. Still, over time, their books fell out of fashion.
Now, they are being re-discovered by a new generation of readers. For instance, there’s renewed interest in the author Dorothy Whipple. Persephone Press recently republished some of her books. Whipple was born in Lancashire, England in 1893. She lived through two world wars and lost many friends. Her bright and erudite writing was popular in the 1940s and ’50s. She astutely delineated her characters, their lives, and their transformations. She implied much but left plenty of room for readers to make their own judgments. I read Someone at a Distance and then gleefully devoured all her books now returned to print.
Among her contemporaries was Jean Rhys. Rhys, born in 1890, published her original and perceptive book Wide Sargasso Sea in 1966. Rhys tells the origin story of Antoinette Cosway Rochester, the first wife of Edward Rochester, the woman locked away in Thornfield Hall in Charlotte Brontë’s novel Jane Eyre. Rhys exposes the racism, colonialism, and imperialism of the era in a riveting tale that reflects changing British attitudes.
South Riding by Winifred Holtby depicts local government workings and human frailties in a small farming community in Yorkshire. Some of her underlying themes are social reform, education, and the rights of women. Holtby, born in 1898, writes authentically with a flair for compelling characters. South Riding’s idealistic school headmistress Sarah Burton says, “I was born to be a spinster…and by God, I’m going to spin.”
Nancy Mitford, of the notorious Mitford sisters, was born into old world English aristocracy in 1902. Mitford’s true family history nearly eclipses her two fabulous satires, Love in a Cold Climate and The Pursuit of Love. These books, based on her chaotic family life and love affairs, are richly detailed and irresistible. Of all the books I read during my two-year Covid staycation, these were the only ones that I had previously read when I was a teenager. And would read again and again if only I had more time.
Stella Gibbons was born in 1902. Her hilarious and subversive satire Cold Comfort Farm was published in 1932. Gibbons writes movingly and vividly about changing family roles and the long and agonizing wait to grow up and begin living one’s own life. Read it and weep and laugh out loud.
Virginia Woolf, born in South Kensington, London in 1852, published her first book, The Voyage Out, in 1915. Woolf is, without question, the best known of the women writers of this period. My favorite Woolf book is To the Lighthouse, published in 1927. The Ramsay family and an assortment of guests stay at a summer house on the Island of Skye. Woolf uses stream of consciousness to describe the thought processes of the various characters. Based on Woolf’s own family, the Stephens, this book is the most memorable staycation book you’ll ever read.
***
Why read these books now?
These women lived through immense changes and witnessed the collapse of society as they knew it. More than 40 million people died in World War I.
And then, another war. Eyewitnesses reported Nazi atrocities. Eight million Jews were murdered in the Holocaust. In 1939, Britain declared war against Germany. Globally, an estimated 40 to 50 million people died during World War II. Fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons fought in Germany, Italy, and the Pacific. They witnessed horrors, brutality, and a scope of man’s inhumanity to man that had been thought unimaginable in a civilized world.
Nearly ten percent of British men never made it home. Many of these authors were war widows. They took over jobs previously held by men. They questioned the monarchy, the government, and class hierarchy. They exposed fascism, colonialism, imperialism, and racism in their writing.
These authors watched the sun set on the British empire and they offered fresh perspectives on an era undergoing a multiplicity of societal, economic, technological, and political changes.
What can we learn from them?
Catastrophic change simultaneously creates heartbreak and opportunity. These women were wounded by chaos, war, and destruction and they responded with resounding hope and optimism in the face of tragedy, inhumanity, and destruction.
We must change and evolve over time. If we don’t, we risk being swept along by the tide. These writers found their moorings despite unspeakable loss and disillusionment. They examined old-world values and moved forward into new ones that included the hard-won liberation from Victorian and Edwardian mores. They developed subversive modernist views about life and love. They may or may not have had rooms of their own, but they lived and worked in a way that permitted them to break free to imagine a better future.
This is not in any way an exhaustive list of British women writing pre-war, wartime and post-war books. There are dozens more. And some of the books I’ve listed can be difficult to find.
Search for them.
They’re well worth it.
Patricia Conover spent her early professional career in the editorial departments of G.P Putnam’s Sons and Random House in New York City. She left corporate publishing to become a writer, editor and teacher after relocating to the West Coast with her family. Her published articles range from an overview of women in architecture to expat strategies in pursuit of an international education. Patricia is a project editor at Going Global, publisher of guidebooks on culture, careers, economies, education, health, and travel. She’s also an ESL teacher. A literacy advocate, she’s volunteered many hours to teaching reading and writing to primary, middle and high school students.
Former Oregonians Patricia and Kirk Conover have a goal of returning every summer. Cape Kiwanda, Pacific City, Oregon 2022 (Credit: Genevieve Conover)
Editor’s note: Back in thepre-internet times, Patricia was a recently relocated New Yorker who was looking to get published. I was an editor in The Oregonian’s Clackamas County bureau and we worked together on several of her stories. She continues to write for several publications and is working on a book about her family’s move to Paris. I look forward to VOA every year to connect with her, and especially enjoyed our in-person reunion in September 2019.
Rough and Rede II 