“Some of us think holding on makes us strong, but sometimes it is letting go.”
—Hermann Hesse (1877–1962), German-Swiss novelist and Nobel Prize laureate, best known for Siddhartha, Steppenwolf, and The Glass Bead Game.
Believe it or not, a week or so ago, the past rose up and slapped me across the face. No, it didn’t leave a bruise, but it left behind something I’m still thinking about.
The slap started when I walked into my office. At first glance, it looks impressive. The lamp casts a golden pool across my glass-top computer desk, giving the whole space a glow that almost convinces me I’ve got things under control. The Oriental rug circles wide and bold underfoot, all rich blues and reds that make the room feel grounded, important, and maybe even a little too proud of itself. Books and papers rise in uneven towers, but in that first glance, they seem less like clutter and more like credentials—proof that I’ve been busy living, working, collecting. Even the cows in the painting on the wall keep a calm eye on the scene, as if to say,
“Carry on, Mtn Prof. You’ve got this.”
But as I walk through the door, the illusion collapses. What looked like a tidy study becomes a landscape of leaning towers and stubborn archives. Books crowd tables in uneven stacks, some open, some shut tight, all demanding to be dealt with. Boxes huddle together on the floor, their labels promising order—but their bulging edges betray the lie. Folders spill their contents, paper curling like leaves that refuse to fall from the tree. A shirt slouches over the back of a chair, a plaid witness to resolve slipping into resignation.
Everywhere I turn, something insists on being noticed. Woven baskets perch on top of files, as if even the containers need containers. The desk is less a surface than a staging ground for half-made decisions. Another painting on the back wall gazes out of its pasture, unblinking, as though it’s been watching me circle this mess for years. It has. It’s not chaos exactly—it’s accumulation. Layer upon layer, a sediment of living, each piece waiting for me to finally decide whether it still belongs.
It isn’t permanent chaos. The boxes say as much, their sharp edges and taped seams hinting at better days ahead—days when decisions will be made, order restored, and space reclaimed. For now, it’s not just an office; it’s a staging area where the past collides with the present, where choices will shape the future. Every pile, every stack, every half-forgotten guidebook, and every dog-eared folder is here because I pulled it out of hiding and chose to face it. In that sense, the clutter is not failure but progress. It’s the visible proof that I’m reckoning with the past, one piece at a time.
I’ll continue to reckon, and I’ll keep on making progress. I know I will. But I know, too, that I can’t rid myself of a lifetime of artifacts in one day. Take the CDs, for instance. Three rows deep. Wedged into the lowest shelf of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase at the far end of the office. They’ve been squirreled away there for years. Waiting. Ralph Stanley leans against Sting, Nina Simone keeps company with Mahalia Jackson, and Susan Boyle dreams her dream right next to the Chuck Wagon Gang. It’s less a collection than a timeline—decades of moods, memories, and seasons pressed into plastic cases. But here’s the thing. I don’t have the heart to get rid of them in one fell swoop. And besides, maybe I don’t want to get rid of them all. Maybe I don’t need to get rid of them all. But I can’t hang on just to hang on. Each one becomes a decision. Which will serenade me today? Into the future? Which has already sung its last song?
Other choices are easier. Travel guides, for instance. Like Fodor’s Greece and Frommer’s Greece on $35 a Day. Both hopelessly outdated, their covers promising adventures I never took. They carry missed possibilities but not regret. Into the discard pile they go. Or the box of Library of Congress business cards, embossed with the proud gold seal of my past career. They once carried weight, proof of my role in the world’s premier library. Now? Nothing more than relics of a past identity. They go into the discard pile, too. The work, the years, the meaning, and the memories? They stay.
Other choices are so easy they’re no brainers. My Frost shelf, for instance: concordances, centennial essays, letters, the familiar black-and-green spines that have followed me across decades. They stay. The same goes for my Mary E. Wilkins Freeman books, lined up in their muted blues and browns. They’re not just books; they’re part of my scholarly DNA. No question, no hesitation. They stay.
Then there are some things whose fate I know as soon as my touch awakens forgottenness. My college copy of Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, margins crammed with the notes of an eighteen-year-old who thought he already knew something about struggle. It stays. My copy of Gibran’s The Prophet, inscribed by a fraternity brother—a book I’ve carried long past the days of Greek letters and youthful certainties. It stays.
A three-by-five oil painting of the covered bridge in Philippi, West Virginia? It’s no masterpiece, but it hardly needs to be. I crossed those boards more times than I remember during my years at Alderson-Broaddus College, each passage a kind of bridge between my coal camp past and the life I was building in the present. The brushstrokes may be clumsy, the colors a bit too bright, but none of that matters. It stays.
A small stack of cassettes holds my mother’s voice on magnetic ribbon. One, dated 11/12/81, is labeled I Take a Stroll and Cause Worry among the Worry Warts. The cassettes may be obsolete, but her voice? Never. Alongside them rests the Bible she gave me when I left for college, her handwriting in the front marking it as mine, though I’ve always known it was hers first.
And the kettle bottom resting heavy on my desk—a flat, round stone that once fell from mine roofs where my father worked fifty years. In those seams, a kettle bottom was a miner’s dread, dropping without warning, too often killing the man beneath it. This one didn’t. My father walked away again and again, spared by chance or grace. These pieces stay—not for their weight, but for his, for hers, and for mine.
Tucked nearly into oblivion is a small 4-H patch from fourth grade, meant to be sewn onto a jacket I didn’t have. But I never needed the jacket to know the four H’s—head, heart, hands, health embroidered in me long before I understood mottos or mission statements. They shaped how I worked, how I cared, and how I learned to give myself to something larger. That patch will never leave me. Some things you don’t outgrow; they simply grow with you.
The things in my office are only the visible part of the past. The rest doesn’t sit on shelves—it lives in memory, in relationships, in faith, in regret, in longing. Those pieces weigh just as much, sometimes more. They, too, must be faced, not in sweeping generalizations, but one by one, moment by moment, decision by decision.
Because that’s how the past works. Even though we can’t erase it, we can’t carry all of it forward either. We have to make hard choices, keeping only what steadies us and letting go of the rest. That’s the only way we’ll have room for life to keep unfolding. Room for the present to breathe. Room for the future to arrive. Room to move forward without being smothered by what came before.
I’m glad the past slapped me across the face. It taught me what we all eventually learn: the only way to live fully in the present, and prepare for the future, is to reckon with the past—seen and unseen, tangible and intangible—piece by piece, choice by choice. The past, the present, and the future are never separate. They are one continuum of time. One long sorting. One steady choosing. One true becoming.
“Somewhere, an editor is waiting to fall in love with what I’ve written. That’s not ego. That’s faith.”
—Brent L. Kendrick (b. 1947). Blogger, literary scholar, creative nonfiction writer (who loves to fool around in bed), and once-upon-a-time professor who splits his reinvention time between restoring lost voices of American literature and discovering new ways to live, love, laugh, and write with meaning. He’s been sighted in the mountains of Virginia. (Authorial aside to all editors: Sit up and take notice—because if you snooze, you lose. This dude’s relatively cheap, cleans up well, once got compared to Garrison Keillor by someone in Tennessee, and yes—he’ll bake sourdough and seduce the annotations, headnotes, footnotes, and endnotes into (mis)behaving.)
Stats?
Oh. Sorry. I don’t mean my vitals. Though I do check them daily. Why not? My Fitbit provides it all, right on my wrist. Heart rate. Breathing rate. Temp. Heart rate variability. Blood oxygenation. Stress. So, yeah. I check those first thing every morning when I wake up.
I meant another set of stats that matter to me.
My WordPress stats.
I like to know how many people are checking out my blog on any given day.
I like to know what countries they’re from.
I especially like to know what posts they’re reading. That info lets me know what’shot and what’snot. Every now and then, I lean in and almost let myself believe that what’shot mightjustbeme. I do. Really. I do. Especially when I see hits on my AboutMe or AboutMyBlog or ContactMe pages. Like the time one lone reader from Lithuania clicked through twelve posts in an hour—and paused on “About Me.” I remember thinking:
“This is it. This is my moment.”
I guess I figure that if someone is going to all the trouble of background snooping, they’re probably on the verge of being the genius who goes down in history as the one who discovered me, thus ensuring that I go down neither unfootnoted nor unnoted.
Me? Discovered?
Don’t scoff! Stranger things have happened, you know. I mean, I wouldn’t be the first writer catapulted into history and literary fame by an editor with deep belief and keen vision.
One writer who has just been catapulted into history comes to mind immediately.
Alexander Gordon (c. 1692-1754).
Did I just hear you gasp:
“Who’s that?”
Surely, I did not, for if you don’t know who he is, then you must not be the faithful follower I know you to be.
If you’re following me–my blog, I should add for your clarity and my protection–then you know that I recently finished a book about Alexander Gordon, the long-forgotten colonial satirist who published his literary works pseudonymously in The South-Carolina Gazette in 1753-54 under the name The Humourist, and then—like so many voices history forgets—he vanished. No one knew who he was. One scholar asked. But he didn’t bother to find out. No one else did, either. Then I came along. I had a lot of curiosity. I had a tolerance for long hours in dusty archives. Eventually, I had a hunch, and I discovered a clue.
So don’t tell me that a writer getting discovered is a myth. I just did that very thing with Alexander Gordon. Guess what else? It occurs to me that he now stands as the first American writer to be thrust by an editor into fame.
Yes. That’s true and, I’ll make that claim. Right here. Right now.
Someone just upbraided me:
“Excuse me. You’re wrong. Anne Bradstreet was the first.”
Being upbraided is something up with which I will not put.
“So ekscuuuuuuuuuuse meeeeee! You’re wrong.”
Here’s why.
I know. I know. You’re probably thinking about her one and only book The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America. In case you don’t know the story surrounding its 1650 publication, it goes like this. Her brother-in-law John Woodbridge spirited her manuscript off to England and published it behind her back, unbeknownst to her.
Bradstreet herself seems to back up that claim, especially in her “The Author to Her Book” offering up her well-known and oft-quoted lament:
Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view, Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).
How convenient for Bradstreet. Her posturing created a persona of Puritan modesty and aversion to recognition as compelling as the narrative of her “stolen” book of poetry—the very tale that helped catapult her into public view.
But here’s the thing. Actually, two things. First, Woodbridge was not her editor. Second, despite the storybook notion that Bradstreet considered her womanly role subordinate to the role of Puritan men, scholars maintain that it was “a propaganda campaign” launched by Bradstreet and her family. I’m thinking particularly of Charlotte Gordon’s “Humble Assertions: The True Story of Anne Bradstreet’s Publication of The Tenth Muse,” maintaining that Bradstreet was not surprised by the publication of her book and that, in fact, she was actively involved in its publication.
So there! Bradstreet does not beat Alexander Gordon when it comes to the first American writer thrust into fame by an editor.
But let me not digress from the claim that I am making. Think as long and as hard as you will about American writers between the publication of The Tenth Muse and the publication of the Humourist essays, and if you can come up with someone else who can seize the claim, reach out to me, and I’ll blog it. Better still, reach out to me, and we’ll co-blog it.
But I won’t hold my breath. The Humourist remained pseudonymous from his first November 26, 1753, essay through his final notice on April 9, 1754, known but to God. That is until I came along and solved the greatest literary mystery in perhaps all of American literature. I unmasked The Humourist and revealed him to be none other than Alexander Gordon, clerk of His Majesty’s Council in South Carolina.
Now, through my dogged determination, my literary sleuthing, and my scholarly editing, Gordon will be known forever more and throughout the world as the acclaimed author of the Humourist essays, among the liveliest and most original voices in Colonial American Literature, right up there and on par with Ben Franklin’s Silence Dogood essays.
Needless to say, there have been other American writers who were brought into public view by editors–all boasting just a smidgen of modesty, of course, comparable to mine–who knew talent when they saw it.
I’m thinking of my lady Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and my book The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Although I edited the letters, provided thorough annotations, and wrote biographical introductions to the book itself and each of its five sections, I’m not the editor who discovered her on her way to literary stardom.
Credit for that goes to someone else. Here’s the brief backstory. Freeman started her career as a children’s writer but then extended her literary efforts into the realm of adult short stories. Lippincott’s, Century, and the Atlantic rejected her “Two Old Lovers.” Then she sent it to Mary Louise Booth, editor of Harper’s Bazar, who read the story three different times during three different moods, as was her custom, and accepted it for publication in the March 31, 1883, issue. From that point forward, Freeman wrote regularly for the Harper’s Bazar and Harper’s Monthly, and, in fact, Harper & Brothers became her regular publisher.
In a way, then, it was Mary Louise Booth’s editorial acumen that escorted Freeman into the international literary acclaim she continues to enjoy even today, though in fairness to Freeman, her talent was such that it would have found its way into the spotlight in one way or another. Talent will always out.
I could go on and on with this litany of writers who were discovered by editors, sometimes against the odds. I’m tempted to say that I won’t, but on second thought, I think that I will share with you snippets of some paired writers and editors who come to mind.
I’ll start with Flannery O’Connor, so well known for her bold and unconventional Southern Gothic voice. It was Robert Giroux, an editor at Harcourt who believed in her debut novel, Wise Blood, and guided it into print—despite its eccentric style and religious overtones.
Or what about Jack Kerouac? His On the Road was originally a 120-foot scroll—raw, unfiltered, and “unpublishable.” But Viking Press editor Malcolm Cowley saw gold and helped shape it into the beat-generation classic it became.
Then we’ve got a postal worker with a cult following in underground poetry circles: Charles Bukowski. He caught the attention of John Martin at Black Sparrow Press. Martin offered him a year’s salary to quit his job and write full time. It was the start of a prolific and gritty career.
No doubt you know the minimalist voice of Raymond Carver. His works might have stayed buried had it not been for Gordon Lish at Esquire. Lish gave Carver his break, though not without some brutal edits.
Closer to me and my situation in many ways is Frank McCourt, who, as a retired teacher in his 60s, wrote Angela’s Ashes. Nan Graham at Scribner wept when she read it and championed it into publication. Oh. My. It won the Pulitzer. It sold millions. My kingdom for a Nan.
And if McCourt was close to me occupationally—educator turned writer; I, of course, am still living according to most recent news reports—then I have to mention Jeanette Walls, whose roots are close to mine since we’re both West Virginians. Her memoir The Glass Castle was going nowhere fast until editor Deb Futter read it and saw its power. Her support turned it into a bestseller and reshaped what memoir could be.
And last but perhaps most important to the hope that I carry (like a well-worn talisman) that an editor will discover me and, in a poof, turn me into star dust is Andy Weir. He self-published his The Martian chapter by chapter online. Julian Pavia at Crown Publishing read it, loved it, and bought it. The novel became a bestseller and hit film.
Oh. My. God. I’m doing exactly what Weir did. I’m publishing all of my Foolin’ Around in Bedessays right here, week by week. Once again, my kingdom for a Pavia unless a Nan has already catapulted my bed into fame.
I could share other snippets, but I confess. Right now, I’m in a pickle. But don’t worry. I have a way out. It will work for me, and, as you are about to see, it will work for you too.
I’m going to do what Margaret Atwood did in her story “Happy Endings.” I’m going to give you options.
A. What happens next? Don’t be so impatient. History is based on facts and evidence. Come back for the ending when the ending is written.
B. What happens next? DearReader, you know exactly what comes next. Yours truly–Brent(ford) L(ee) Kendrick–aka TheWiredResearcher—keeps right on doing what he’s been doing with his writing and his research. And he keeps right on hoping that an editor–a believer—is out there, poised and ready to do for him what he’s just done for Alexander Gordon.
Not just this blog. Not just my Foolin’ Around in Bed essays. But Gordon. Freeman. Years of words, research, story, and sweat. A whole body of work—waiting for the right editor/reader to say: “This one. This voice.”
“Which ending do you like?” someone queried.
I much prefer B. After all, keepin’ on keepin’ on is the road I’m traveling. Even if it is the one less traveled by, it makes all the difference. Especially when it leads past the stats and toward the stars. (Whew! What a relief. I figured out a way to bring Robert Frost into this post. It’s been too long–far too long.)
Besides, putting aside my own preference for an ending, I have no doubt in the world that right now, an editor is out there who believes in me, who might be scrolling through my “About Me,” pausing over a sentence, clicking “Contact Me,” and thinking:
“Thisone. Thisvoice.”
OMG. I just felt the earth shift.
I did. I really did.
Did you?
No? You didn’t?
Don’t worry. Be happy.Somewhere, right now, someone’s opening a drawer, clicking a link, or flipping a page—and everything’s about to begin.
“To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”
— Mary Oliver (1935–2019). Pulitzer Prize–winning poet known for her luminous reflections on nature, love, and loss. With clarity and grace, she reminded us to notice what’s beautiful, to cherish what’s mortal, and to let go when the time comes.
It arrived in a box the size of a dorm fridge—bulky, over-taped, and shipped all the way from upstate New York. Inside, cushioned among layers of newspaper and that crinkly brown packing paper that never quite dies, was one of the first gifts Allen–my late partner–ever gave me: a hefty, cream-colored chamber pot. Topped with a crocheted collar that looked like it belonged on a Shaker bonnet, and packed—ironically, perhaps even poetically—with potpourri.
The scent, when I opened the lid, was a clash of lavender and artificial pine, the kind that tries too hard to smell like memory. I laughed, of course. How could I not? A poo jar filled with petals. Humor as a cover. Humor as a calling card. I appreciated the gesture more than the object. Still do. But the truth is, I never liked the pot. Not even a little. It sat in a corner for a quarter century, quietly collecting cobwebs—and stories I never much wanted to dust off.
And now? I’m finally throwing it away. Guilt-free. It did its duty—delivered its laugh, carried its little memory, sparked a story. That’s enough. I’m keeping the crocheted collar as a relic, a threadbare nod to the better parts of our history. The rest can go.
When I made that decision, I actually chuckled. After all, while I like to think that I’ll be around forever, realistically I’m nearing 78. Why not get rid of the stuff now, while I can decide?
I’m not thinking about dying, but this sort of cleanse exists in lots of cultures.
In Sweden, it’s called döstädning—“death cleaning”—a gentle, forward-thinking ritual of clearing out what no longer serves, so your loved ones don’t have to.
In Japan, danshari encourages letting go of clutter—and the emotional baggage that clings to it—in pursuit of a simpler, freer life.
In the Jewish tradition, it’s the ethical will, where elders pass down their values and stories—sometimes alongside their belongings—so nothing meaningful is left unsaid.
Indigenous communities often give things away before the end, weaving stories into every shared object, turning parting into a generous act of connection.
In Tibetan Buddhism, simplicity before death is a form of spiritual preparation—phowa as a practice of unclinging, both to life and the sock drawer.
Even in Iceland, there’s an unspoken elegance to giving things with meaning—fewer objects, deeper stories.
And down here in the South? We just start handing out heirlooms with a twinkle in our eye:
“You’ve always liked this gravy boat, haven’t you?”
Trust me. I’m trying that. But guess what? I can’t give it away, try as I will—not even to dear friends and kinsmen.
Who knows. Maybe they’re Zoomers or Millennials who don’t want to clutter their lives like I’ve cluttered mine.
Turns out, a lot of folks under forty don’t want stuff at all. They want experiences—trips, concerts, quiet hikes, a really good latte in a beautiful cup that isn’t part of a 16-piece set. They lean minimalist and value sustainability. Their souvenirs are screenshots, playlists, and the occasional tattoo. Unless my keepsake comes with a story or a strong aesthetic, it’s probably headed for the thrift shop.
A lot of it has found its way there already. More will follow. The initial shock of letting go isn’t as painful as I expected, and I’m discovering that the pain lessens the more I give to Goodwill. I keep reminding myself that the stuff I’m giving away brought me joy for years and years. Now, it can bring others joy at a far lesser price than I paid.
Aside from recycling joy, I have other reasons for embracing what I think I’ll call giving away the Southern-Comfort way.
For starters, the executors of my trust will thank me in advance for doing now what I had no right to ever expect them to do later. Chances are that you’ll need to give that sentence another read or three. Once you do, move on to the next paragraph, where you’ll find a fact that will brighten up your next cocktail party.
Did you know that the average executor spends 100 to 200 hours just sorting through someone’s personal papers and possessions after they die? I’m not talking taxes or legal work—just the business of sifting through the drawers, the boxes, the files, the “I might need this someday” pile in the hall closet. If the estate is disorganized—or, let’s be honest, lovingly chaotic like mine—it can balloon to 300 hours or more. That’s weeks of someone’s life spent decoding your filing system, hunting down life insurance policies, wondering if a particular shoebox full of rubber bands means anything to anyone. And that’s assuming they live nearby. If they don’t? Add plane tickets, time off work, and emotional exhaustion to the tab.
Well. My executors know what I’m doing, and they’re messaging me their effusive thanks already, along with full encouragement to keep right on gifting in my Southern-Comfort way.
It gives me great pleasure, of course, to extend to them a cheerful “You’re welcome” now because by the time they’re empowered, my power will be limited to what I’ve written. The more I think about it, maybe that’s powerful enough.
But I have another reason, too. Doing what I’m doing lets me be in control. I can make sure that my “gravy boats” are repurposed in a way that lets the gravy keep right on flowing the way that I have in mind.
It makes perfectly good sense to me. Let me pause here to say one more thing. Aside from my Southern-Comfort way of gifting, I had the good sense ages ago to get other parts of my house in order: my will and trust.
And here’s another tidbit you can toss around with the olives and maraschino cherries at your next party.
Did you know that nearly 2 out of 3 Americans die without a will? That’s right—despite all the ads for online services and fill-in-the-blank templates, most folks still manage to ghost the Grim Reaper without so much as scribbling a “To whom it may concern.” And when that happens? The Judge Judy drama begins. We’re talking frozen accounts, snarled inheritances, court-appointed strangers making decisions, and families brawling over Grandma’s gravy boat like it’s the last crouton at Sunday brunch. Honestly, dying without a will is the messiest group project you’ll never get any extra credit for.
Guess what? That 2 out of 3 number I gave you includes the rich and famous, too. When I share some of the details with you, you’ll see for yourself that nothing says “let go of your crap now” like the chaos of dying with no will.
But I’m only going to clue you in on a few. After all, you don’t want to be the center of attention at every cocktail party you won’t get invited to if you keep on talking about things everyone needs to do as part of their own death cleanse ritual. Besides, I only had a little time between Goodwill trips to do my research on famous folks without wills.
But here’s three or five you can work to death.
Can you believe that HonestAbe Lincoln himself never got around to writing a will? Try smoking that in your pipe! The man who preserved the Union didn’t preserve a single line of legal instruction. His estate had to be handled by a probate court, and his son Robert had to manage the distribution. It wasn’t exactly messy, but it was embarrassingly ironic.
Or what about the Queen of Soul herself? Aretha Franklin. Well. Yes and no. Initially, she was thought to have no will—until not one but three handwritten wills were found in random places, including under a couch cushion. Say whaaat? Yep. Wedged in a spot where even a remote shouldn’t go. Her family ended up in a nasty legal fight to determine which scribbled version was valid. Talk about a long-winded story. Not here. Not now. Maybe another time.
And while we’re up in the clouds hitting these high notes, let’s not leave out Prince who–you guessed it–had no will. Nope. Zero. Nothing. But he had lots of estate, estimated at over $150 million. It triggered years of court battles among six siblings (some full, some half), and other people claiming to be heirs. His music rights and assets were tied up in legal red tape for six years.
Then, of course, we have the eccentric billionaire Howard Hughes who died with no will that anyone could prove—wasreal. But then again, was Hughes real? He must have been because what happened after his death was like a three-ring circus. Over 600 people filed claims as heirs, including strangers and distant cousins. One “will” was found in a Mormon church—allegedly leaving money to gas station attendants. Fake? Indeed!
Let me share one more example so that you’ll have five in your repertoire.
It’s my very own Dolly—Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, the writer I’ve studied and loved for decades. How on earth could the writer who was, in terms of dollars and cents, America’s most successful nineteenth-century businesswoman not have had the good sense to have her will in place when she died. It’s strange. She had told many people that she had left them money in it, and she referred to a will as late as August 10, 1929, in a letter to Grace Davis Vanamee (American Academy of Arts and Letters):
“I am returning the letters. It will give me much pleasure to have them placed in the museum.
“They naturally would not mean much to my legal heirs, and The Academy honors me by accepting them. I wish there were more.
“Anything else I have of more intrinsic value, is included in my will, for the Academy museum.” (Letter 506. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions by Brent L. Kendrick, 1985).
Yet when she died in 1930, no will was brought forward. According to one source, she tore it up the day before. At any rate, her two first cousins renounced their rights of administration and requested that Freeman’s attorney handle her estate. He did.
What gets me is this. Freeman wasn’t careless. She was thoughtful and deliberate. Still, her wishes went unrecorded, or at least unhonored. It stays with me, that quiet unraveling of a life so carefully lived.
Maybe that’s part of why I’ve started sorting now—because legacy deserves more than good intentions. I’m not just making lists. I’m making sure the meaning behind the things—and the things themselves—end up where I intend.
Freeman’s didn’t land with intent. Others were writing her final chapter, filled with unexpected characters. The next of kin list grew. Three other first cousins came forward, plus four more relatives with legal rights.
Suddenly, what might’ve been simple became crowded—with claims, questions, and confusion.
Freeman’s personal property was auctioned, with people flocking to the sale and leaving with prized treasures:
● four-poster bed belonging to her grandmother;
● all the books that she had penned and then inscribed, “To My Dear Husband”; and even
● the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction, awarded to her as its first recipient in 1925.
You may be wondering as I have often wondered. What happened to those and other treasures from her estate? Did they survive? Who has them today?
And into that mix of wonderings let me add that I would perhaps gladly sigh my last breath to touch the volume of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry that she held when she lay down on her bed on the evening of March 13 and died at 7:45pm of a heart attack.
What happened to it? Did it survive? Who owns it now?
So there. Now you have it. Five cocktail snippets. Rich and famous folks who bit the dust without a will and left a dusty trail behind.
As for me, I have my will in place. And just as I’m doing my best to give stuff away in my Southern-Comfort way, I’m doing the same with special collections I’ve spent decades curating—Shenandoah Valley pottery, Freeman books, and Freeman letters. My executors know where they belong, but I’m finding unexpected joy in trying to place things myself. Knowing they’re landing where they’re wanted? That will bring a kind of peace no estate plan ever could. Sweeter still, I’ll know they’ll be where I want them to be—and when it’s all said and done, I won’t be lying there wondering.
With any luck, my last course for this potluck called life might be an extra helping of joy for the journey.
won’t you celebrate with me what i have shaped into a kind of life? i had no model. born in babylon both nonwhite and woman what did i see to be except myself? i made it up here on this bridge between starshine and clay, my one hand holding tight my other hand; come celebrate with me that everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed.
—Lucille Clifton (1936–2010), award-winning American poet and former Poet Laureate of Maryland, celebrated for her spare, powerful verse that gave voice to Black womanhood, resilience, and self-invention.
It hangs there—dripping in crystal like it’s late for a curtain call at the Kennedy Center. A blazing burst of light and glamour. A chandelier so decadently faceted it might’ve been smuggled out of a Versailles estate sale or rescued from a Broadway set mid-strike. And yet, here it is: mounted proudly on a ceiling so low you could toast it with your coffee mug.
Where?
Why, right here on my mountaintop, in my rustic foyer wrapped in pine-paneled nostalgia, with a Shenandoah Valley pie safe, stoically anchoring one side and a polished silver chest on the other. An antique Asian vase—graceful and aloof—presides atop the chest like it’s seen empires rise and fall. Beneath it all, an Oriental runner unspools like a red carpet nobody asked for, but everybody deserves.
And then—just beyond the shimmer—a French door opens into another room, as if the whole scene is a prelude to a slow reveal.
It shouldn’t work. I know that fully well. A chandelier like this belongs somewhere fancy and regal. But guess what? Somehow, its sparkle doesn’t clash with the country charm, at least in my mind. In fact, it crowns it. And you can rest assured. It isn’t a mistake. It’s my way of declaring that my home isn’t just a home. It’s a story–actually, it’s lots of stories–told in light and shadow. And at the center of it all? My refusal to decorate according to rules. I couldn’t even if I wanted to because I have no idea what the rules are.
But a week or so ago, my Tennessee Gary stood smackdab beneath the chandelier—looking right at me, poised (I was certain) on the cusp of praise or profundity. But the next thing I knew, he spoke six words, which made me a tad uncertain about my certainty.
“I’m not sure it belongs there.”
“What?”
“The chandelier.”
“Well, I think it’s perfect. I wasn’t about to leave it in my Capitol Hill home when I moved here. It cost me a small fortune, and besides—I like it.”
That ended it. For then.
But a few days later, Gary brought it up again.
“Actually,” he said, studying the ceiling with a fresh softness, “the chandelier grows on you. It looks quite good there.”
If that’s not a kiss-and-make-amends moment, then lay one on me.
I grinned and agreed.
And let me tell you—that right there? That’s the moment that stuck. Not the first comment, but the second. The way Gary circled back. The way he didn’t double down, but opened up. That takes grace. That takes someone who sees with more than just their eyes.
He didn’t just help me see the chandelier differently. He helped me see the whole house—and maybe even myself—with a little more curiosity. A little more clarity. And that’s when I started walking through the rooms again—not to judge or justify, but to really look. Through his eyes. Through my eyes. Through the eyes of everyone who’s ever stepped inside and wondered how on earth all of this could possibly make sense.
And yet—to me—all of this makes perfectly good sense. Placed with memory, not trend. Positioned not for symmetry but sentiment. A lifetime’s worth of objects tucked wherever I could fit them, arranged with a kind of chaotic confidence that, somehow, glows.
But, still, I heard echoes rumbling around in my memory’s storehouse:
“It’s so homey.”
“I feel so comfortable here.”
“Wow! It’s like walking through a museum.”
In the midst of those echoes, I figured out how to find comfort: find someone else who decorates the way I do! It didn’t take me long at all before I remembered someone who had lived—and decorated—with the same truth: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.
As soon as I had that recall moment, I scooched up beside her so close that I could peek over her shoulder as she penned a letter to Kate Upson Clark. And Lord have Mercy Jesus! You can’t imagine my joy when I realized that folks said the same sort of things about her home decor as they say about my mine:
“I light this room with candles in old brass candlesticks. I have dull blue-and-gilt paper on the walls, and a striped Madagascar rug over a door, and a fur rug before the hearth. It is one of the queerest looking places you ever saw, I expect. You ought to see the Randolph folks when they come in. They look doubtful in the front room, but they say it is ‘pretty.’ When they get out into the back room, they say it ‘looks just like me’. I don’t know when I shall ever find out if that is a compliment.” (Letter 46, August 12, 1889. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985)
I was thrilled to know that I was “keeping house,” if you will, in style with Freeman herself, especially since she and Mark Twain were America’s most beloved late-nineteenth-century writers. It didn’t really matter that I’m as much in the dark as she was when it comes to figuring out whether folks’ comments about my home-decorating talents are compliments or not.
And believe me. My home is filled with things far-more out of place than anything in Freeman’s or even the chandelier in my foyer.
If you need more proof, just walk around the corner and take a gander at my kitchen.
Who, in their wildest imagination, would expect to see an antique, cast-iron corn sheller anchoring a kitchen wall painted a rather dull gold. There it stands—bold, barn-red wood frame worn just enough to whisper stories, and a great black flywheel so theatrical it looks like it could power Mark Twain’s steamboat. Its jagged steel teeth peer out from one side like a warning or a dare. And yes, that’s a Buddha head poised gracefully on top. And a crystal vase of dried hydrangeas beside that. And behind it all, a painting of apples that, frankly, looks like it might have been pilfered from a still-life museum.
The whole wall, absurd as it may sound, radiates a kind of balance. It shouldn’t work. But neither should a chandelier in a pine-paneled foyer—yet here we are.
Even Ruby’s dog bowls sit below it like they were placed by a set designer with a sense of humor or a flair for the unexpected. And maybe they were. After all, this isn’t just décor. It’s a declaration. I live here. I made this up.
I did. I made it all up. And if these examples of how I decorate aren’t duncified enough, walk with me to the master bedroom where you’ll witness equally outlandish shenanigans.
I mean when you walk through the door you see a full wall of glass rising two stories high, flanked in clean wood trim like a frame around nature’s own oil painting, dappled with sunlight or clouds or rain or snow depending on the season. It’s modern, no question—open, architectural, and bright. The trees outside don’t just peek in—they wave, as I peek out and wave back.
Yet, in the midst of that modernity, you see a primitive wardrobe planted firmly against the Narragansett Green wall like it wandered in from a barn and decided to stay. It doesn’t whisper for attention—it claims it, with its wide plank doors, turned feet, and a latch that looks like it could keep out winter or wolves or well-meaning minimalists. It stands there like a wooden exclamation mark at the end of a free verse stanza.
And on top? Oh, mercy. You won’t believe it.
A faux flow-blue cachepot stuffed full of peacock feathers–a riot of iridescence exploding upward. Liberace himself would approve. And to its right is a clay figure with a gaze both weary and wise, like she’s been through it all and chose to dress up anyway.
This is not a design decision. This is pageantry. This is poetry. This is proof. If you’re bold enough to mix the primitive with the peacock, you might just get something startlingly close to the divine.
I could take you through the whole house—room by room—and you’d see the same thing.
A treasure here. A treasure there. (Yes. Sometimes another person’s trash became my treasure.) And for each, I can tell you when and where I bought it, along with what I paid. But here’s the thing. I never made one single solitary purchase with an eye toward resale. I never made one single solitary purchase with an eye toward decorating. I bought each and every treasure simply because I liked it. And when I brought it home, I put it wherever I had a spot on the floor or a space on the wall.
Now, don’t go jumping to the wrong conclusion. My decorating is not as haphazard as it might sound. I do have a few notions about “where things belong” and “what goes with what.” And when I visit other folks’ homes, I never hesitate to step back and declare:
“Oh. My. God. Look at that painting. I love the way it pops on that wall.”
Well, hello. Of course, it pops. With all that negative space around it, it would have to.
Let me add this, too. I love it when I see that kind of plain, simple, and powerful artistry at play–in other people’s homes.
And who knows. Perhaps, moving forward, there might even be a snowball’s chance in hell that, with some subtle, indirect and loving guidance, I could learn to value and appreciate negative space here on the mountain, too.
But for now, my goodness! I don’t have any negative space. Everywhere you look, you see a glorious mishmash. Sentiment over symmetry. Memory over minimalism.
I know. I know. It’s homey. It’s so comfortable. It’s a museum. Also, I know it’s not for everyone. But as I look around, I realize something majorly important.
I’ve decorated my house the way I’ve lived my life.
I had no blueprint. I had no Pinterest board. I didn’t consult trends. I didn’t ask for permission. I placed things where they felt right. I trusted instinct, not instruction. I listened to heart, not head.
And I’ve done the same with the living of my days.
I didn’t wait for others to validate the things that mattered to me—my work, my relationships, my choices, or my way of making a way in a world that hadn’t made a way for gay guys like me. I’ve been both the curator and the interpreter of it all. I’ve decided what stays, what goes, what gets the spotlight, and what quietly holds meaning just for me.
And maybe—just maybe—there’s something to be said for that kind of decorating. For that kind of living. One made up along the way. One that, in the end, fits and feels just right.
Who knows what kind of unruly hodgepodge I’ll have gathered by the time I reach the end. Or what I’ll do with it when I arrive—wherever it is that I’m headed—that place none of us is exactly rushing to, despite tantalizing rumors of eternal rest and better acoustics.
But this much I do know.
If I take a notion, I might just take the chandelier with me. Not for the lighting. Not for the resale value. But as glowing, glittering, slightly-too-low-hanging proof that I never followed the map—I just kept decorating the journey. With memory. With mischief. With mismatched joy. And with the quiet grace of learning to see things through someone else’s eyes—sometimes anew.
And when I show up at whatever comes next—the pearly gates, some velvet ropes, or a reincarnation waiting room—I want folks to look at that chandelier, then look at me, and say with raised eyebrows and holy disbelief:
“I’m not sure it belongs here.”
To which I’ll smile as wide as I’m smiling right now and reply,
“Well, I wasn’t about to leave it behind. Besides, I have it on good authority—it’ll grow on you.”
And that’s the truth. It’ll grow on you. I should know because I made it all up, all along my way.
“It is the job of the biographer to capture not just the facts, but the person—to recreate a life that breathes.”
–Richard Holmes (b. 1945. British biographer and literary historian, best known for revolutionizing the art of biography by blending rigorous research with narrative grace. Holmes treats biography as “a pursuit”—a physical and emotional journey that mirrors the subject’s life and traces the biographer’s own evolving understanding.)
Last week, I had the honor of speaking to the Mary E. Wilkins Freeman Society—an international gathering of scholars and fellow literary sleuths—about a woman who has occupied both my imagination and my file drawers for over fifty years. The event was titled An Hour with Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and Brent L. Kendrick, though truth be told, Freeman took up more than her share of the hour—quite the feat for someone 95 years late to the party.
My talk focused on the biographer’s challenge—specifically, the one I’ve taken on in my newest work-in-progress: Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, a two-volume biography that attempts not just to recount her life but also to reckon with it. And as I spoke, I realized: you, my Dear Readers, might want to know the thrust of those challenges too.
Besides, if the rocks on the mountain above me ever come tumbling down around my head—and let’s be honest, erosion is undefeated—I’d like to think I’ve left behind notes coherent enough for some poor soul to pick up the thread and carry on. Consider this a digital trail of sourdough breadcrumbs. Or a literary will. Or maybe just a slightly compulsive footnote to posterity.
Let’s began with where I began my conversation with the Society! To my surprise–well, not really–I departed from my prepared PowerPoint presentation and shared with everyone some of my recent finds. Not all. Just a few. Like some first editions of her books that survive with dust jackets intact: Doc Gordon (1906) and An Alabaster Box, co-authored with Florence Morse Kingsley (1917).
Then I had to share a copy of her Pembroke with an 1894 letter tipped in, expressing her surprise to learn of a Pembroke, New Hampshire and insisting that the Pembroke in her novel was an imaginary town.
I could have gone on and on, but I had to get started with my prepared PowerPoint. Even so, I was dying to share one of my most treasured finds in recent years: an association copy of her Jane Field (1892) from the library of Thomas Hardy, no less. It even has his book plate! And get this! Tipped into the book is a letter from Freeman to Hardy, written in 1894 when she was still Mary E. Wilkins.
I had to share those items because discoveries like that make research truly enjoyable.
After that gem, I decided to begin my formal presentation, so I started with silence. No. No. Not her Silence and Other Stories (1898) that I had included in my show-and-tell of her books with dust jackets.
And I wasn’t talking about the peaceful kind of silence. I had in mind the charged, maddening kind that suggests everything while saying nothing. My work on Freeman’s is a study in absences. No children. No will. No literary executor. No neat stack of labeled folders tucked away in a special collections box. Just scattered letters—some stiff and formal, others intimate and tender, many conspicuously missing. A few were destroyed by well-meaning friends who, bless them, thought privacy more valuable than posterity. That’s loyalty with scissors.
And yet, what’s missing speaks volumes. Silence, when it’s deliberate, isn’t absence—it’s presence with its mouth closed. It points to pain, privacy, or power. It challenges the biographer to resist the urge to fill in gaps with imagination. Biography isn’t fiction. And Freeman, who lived within boundaries, both imposed and self-constructed, deserves to have her story told with respect for what she chose not to share.
I used to think my job was to uncover. But every time I held her letters—some brittle, some bold, many barely surviving—I understood something deeper. My job was to listen. Not for revelations, but for nuance. I hoped the silences might eventually yield confessions. What I found instead was the eloquence of restraint.
And that restraint continues through the patchwork of what remains. What I’m working with wasn’t curated; it was cobbled together from libraries, estates, eBay listings, obscure auctions, and—on more than one occasion—serendipity. A letter here. A scribbled marginal note there. A donation from someone who thought, “This might be of interest.” And indeed, it was.
From this mosaic, one truth stood out: Freeman was no literary waif wandering the fields of New England and New Jersey with a bonnet full of feelings. She was sharp. Strategic. A woman who tracked her payments, negotiated contracts, and protected her work with steely precision. She didn’t just write to be heard—she wrote to be paid. And she succeeded.
But there were ways in which she was silenced, or at least reframed. Take her first collection of stories for adults, for example. The world knows it as A Humble Romance, but that was not her title. She wanted Green Mountain Stories. One editorial misstep reshaped her critical reception for generations. In an attempt to set the record straight, I published the collection in 2023 under the title she originally intended. It wasn’t just an act of publishing—it was an act of restoration. A reclamation. A literary correction served warm.
Place shaped her profoundly. Born in Massachusetts, forged in Vermont, and, by her own reluctant admission, tethered to New Jersey. Who claims her? Each state might try, but perhaps none can fully. Those Vermont years were transformative—not just scenic. She didn’t merely write about place; she grew into herself there. Critics, of course, pinned her as “local color,” as though geography were quaint decoration instead of animating force.
At one point, I thought I could simply revise my earlier book, The Infant Sphinx. Dust off a few facts, plug in a few letters, call it an update. My Dear Readers, I could not. With over 587 pages already in print and decades of new discoveries, it became clear: this wasn’t a renovation. This was a whole new house.
I decided to start from the ground up. Volume I: The New England Years (1852–1901) tracks her ascent—her voice, her control, her deliberate rise. Volume II: The New Jersey Years (1902–1930) explores unraveling and resilience. Her husband’s alcoholism, his institutionalization, his escape, his death, and his final legacy: disinheriting her in favor of his chauffeur. But those years also brought triumph. Freeman became the first recipient of the William Dean Howells Gold Medal. She was elected to the National Institute of Arts and Letters. She endured—and she flourished.
As I worked, she shifted in my mind from “The Infant Sphinx” to something more intimate. Her friends called her “Dolly.” So do I. Because what emerged wasn’t a mask, but a woman: shrewd, vulnerable, funny, driven. Someone who resisted easy summary. Someone who might have written my biography better than I’ll ever write hers.
Of course, none of this would’ve been possible in 1985. Back then, research meant microfilm, train stations, and airports. Now, it means auction alerts, digital archives, and collectors who drop treasures into my inbox. I’ve found letters in university databases, estate catalogs, and the odd footnote in a forgotten article. The crowd, the cloud, and the collector—they’ve all joined the project. I don’t always have to go to the archive anymore. Sometimes, the archive comes to me.
In some ways, I’ve spent my whole career waiting for this moment. Waiting for the tools to catch up to the mystery. Waiting for the materials to surface. Waiting for my own understanding to mature.
That’s why Dolly had to happen now.
And apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so. What began as a one-time Zoom talk has unexpectedly grown legs—and possibly a handbag. To my surprise and delight, the talk was a hit. I’ve been invited to give it again on June 27, and word keeps trickling in. Emails from those who missed it have arrived, each bearing some variation of “Please tell me it was recorded.”
Hannah Champion, President of the Freeman Society and Assistant Professor of Nineteenth-Century American Literature at Université Bordeaux Montaigne, has asked me to do a formal recording for the Society’s blog. Apparently, I’m more popular than I realized—or perhaps Mary is, and I’m just her current mouthpiece with a sometimes-decent Wi-Fi signal and a fondness for dust-jacket ephemera.
However that may be, one thing is certain: Mary E. Wilkins Freeman isn’t just a name on a title page or a portrait in an outdated textbook. She’s a presence. One I’ve come to know. One I hope you’ll come to know, too.
And if the mountain above me holds steady a while longer, I’ll finish her story—not as I once imagined it, but exactly as Dolly now insists on having it told.
“We were just boxwoods until someone believed we could be part of something beautiful.”
–— Anonymous. Possibly the shy one in the corner.
Ten pots of BuxusMicrophylla, or, as I prefer saying in plain English, Little Missy boxwoods—five per row, glossy green and neatly packed—sit patiently in the open bed of an Army Green Jeep Gladiator. It’s the last Saturday in March, early morning, overcast, but already brushing up against seventy degrees. The air hums with quiet possibility. The gravel drive crunches underfoot, the hills beyond still bare-limbed and watching. The day is waiting, hopeful. So are the boxwoods—waiting, hopeful, wondering—ready to take root in the earth but not yet knowing where.
One other player in this little drama unfolding before us is waiting–hopeful and wondering, too. That would be me. It’s been two weeks since I bought the boxwoods and asked Woodstock Gardens to hold them for me. I had been eyeing the weather forecast, and when I saw that Saturday’s temp would soar to 83°, I knew that the time had arrived for me and the Little Missy boxwoods to perform.
I knew where I wanted to plant them: along a stepped, stone pathway with a wide expanse of gardening space reaching out to the rock wall above that defines the walkway to my kitchen. Down through the years, lots of perennials have flourished there, mainly hardy bananas and lilies. But this past winter, I decided that small, evergreen patches would soften the stones and brighten the landscape year-round.
I expected putting in the Little Missy boxwoods to be straightforward. Position in place. Dig the holes. Tease the tangled root balls. Cover with topsoil. Water. Mulch. Those expectations defined my day, making me confident that I would move on to reclaiming the peony bed in the lower yard by early afternoon.
And so it would have been, I suspect, had I not decided to adjust a rock here and there with an eye toward little more than leveling them as they once were. I knew from the start that leveling one rock would lead to three to five and on and on. But what I didn’t expect was that the rocks would become my focus—not as a distraction from planting, but as a quiet joy, inviting me to sit and let them show me where they wanted to be. As I moved the rocks, the soil spoke to a past that I had created down through the years, with a fierce determination to turn mountain clay into fertile loam.
And there I sat with nowhere that I had to go and with nothing that I had to do other than sit right there, centered in nothing yet in everything.
I glanced at my Fitbit and realized that I would be a 1pm peony-bed no-show. But that didn’t matter. I had spaced my boxwoods exactly where I wanted them to begin with, but now they were framed by rocks whose voice I had heeded. I knew in that moment that this is the way to plant boxwoods.
I could brush this aside just as readily as I cradled the soil carefully around each boxwood.
But I won’t—because this wasn’t just a moment in the garden. It was a quiet revelation.
The stillness of that moment—just me, the rocks, the soil, and the Little Missy boxwoods—stirred something I hadn’t expected. It reminded me of another time I resisted the urge to rush. A time when I could have taken the more efficient path, but chose instead the one that felt truer, even if slower.
Years ago, colleagues and friends encouraged me to publish a selected edition of letters by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. “It’ll be faster,” they said. “Get it out there. Choose the best, the most representative.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to curate a highlight reel. I wanted to listen to her whole voice—every quiet, overlooked, handwritten and typed syllable of it. “If not me, who? If not now, when?”–I mused.
And so, I kept going. Year after year. Archives and attics. Libraries and ledgers. It took a decade, but in the end, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman bore an honest title and held honest content. Collected. 585 letters. All. No stone unturned.
What mattered as much as the scholarship was the joy of the journey. The small discoveries. The forgotten details. The moments when her voice, long quiet, seemed to rise again from the page, breathing life into a history nearly lost. Just like those rocks, just like that soil—I had to be still, to listen, to let her show me where she wanted to be.
Years later, my students came along. In my online classes, I interacted with each class as a whole, and with each student as they turned in their work. But I always made it a point to reach out to students who didn’t submit an assignment or who seemed to be slipping away. My messages weren’t elaborate—just a quick, casual “checking in with you.” I never knew where those simple interventions might lead.
More than once, a student replied to say they were struggling—juggling work, family, illness, or grief—and that my short note had stopped them from dropping the course altogether. From giving up.
Those became some of my most memorable teaching moments. I hadn’t said anything profound. I had simply shown up. And somehow, I had rolled away a small stone of darkness and doubt so that a student could glimpse light—and maybe even hope.
In each of these moments, I was doing what didn’t have to be done. No one would have faulted me for skipping a few rocks, publishing a selection of letters, or letting a silent student drift away. But something in me paused. Listened. Chose the slower path. Not because I had to—but because I could. If not me, who? If not now, when?
Maybe that’s the deeper truth. Not every action we take has to change the world. But every time we pause and ask If not me, who?If not now, when?—when we do the thing that doesn’t have to be done—we create the conditions where light can get in. Where roots can reach deeper. Where someone, or something, can grow.
It could be something as simple as picking up the phone to call someone who’s been on your mind. Or checking in on a neighbor whose curtains haven’t opened in days. It might be stopping to thank the cashier who’s clearly having a rough shift. Or finally taking the time to write that note of encouragement, apology, or love.
It could mean speaking up when a voice needs backing. Or standing back to let someone else shine. It might be mentoring a colleague, even when your plate is full. Or walking away from a quick fix to do something the right way, even if no one will notice.
It could be choosing kindness when sarcasm’s easier. Planting hope where cynicism wants to take root. Offering presence when no solution is in sight.
These aren’t dramatic acts. They’re just pauses. Moments when we choose to show up with care. To ask ourselves, If not me, who? If not now, when? And then to listen for the answer.
It’s not about doing more. It’s about doing what matters. Trusting that presence—not perfection—is what carries us forward. And knowing that when we show up, even quietly, the outcome will almost always be better, more beautiful, and far more rewarding.
“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”
— T. S. Eliot (1888–1965; influential poet and critic, known for his The Waste Land and Four Quartets; from his “The Frontiers of Criticism,” a 1956 lecture at the University of Minnesota.)
At 76, I never expected to fall in love with breakdancing—a form of art I can’t perform now and probably never could have.
But fall in love I did, and my falling was entirely accidental. Please don’t tell the world at large, but from time to time, I watch YouTube reels. On one occasion, I flipped over some guys doing some electrifying breakdancing in Times Square. Highly athletic. Highly energetic. Acrobatic moves. Fluid styles. Beat-heavy music. Raw energy. Captivated crowds. Street culture. Iconic location. Be still my beating heart.
Even as a virtual participant, I was pulled in by the rhythm, the creativity, and the energy. Actually, I’m getting a little gaga now, just writing about breakdancing. Apparently, I’m not alone. Breakdancing, which emerged as a street art in 1970s New York, gave marginalized voices an avenue for expression. Since then, it has grown into a global phenomenon, even recognized as an official sport in the Paris 2024 Olympics.
When I saw breakdancing elevated to the Olympic stage, I realized that even if I can’t breakdance (though I wish I could) and even if you can’t breakdance (though you may have no desire to do so whatsoever), we can all learn from breakdancing’s blend of creativity, resilience, and pushing boundaries.
I get my breakdancing joy from far more than its moves. For me, it’s a dynamic art form that brings together dance, athleticism, music, and even a bit of theater. It’s improvisational, collaborative, and fiercely personal, and I love watching each dancer adding their own flair to create something entirely unique. It reminds me of jazz—a blend of structured rhythm and spontaneous expression. It’s a powerful reminder of what we can achieve when we mix styles, experiment, and give ourselves room to explore without a script. In many ways, it mirrors the spirit of what I do when I teach. As one student observed on my end-of-semester evaluation:
“It’s a wild ride.”
What fascinates me equally as much is the resilience behind those gravity-defying moves. Watching the dancers, I’m always mindful of the hours, if not years, of practice—and the countless falls—it takes to achieve that level of control. Breakdancers get knocked down over and over, but each fall is part of the process, teaching them balance, precision, and persistence. That kind of resilience, the willingness to try, fall, and rise up again is a lesson that reaches far beyond the dance floor.
However, what fascinates me most of all is the way breakdancing has pushed boundaries, challenging traditional ideas of dance and art. It defied norms when it first emerged on the streets of New York, refusing to be confined to studios or stages. Now, it has shaken things up as an Olympic sport.
It makes me wonder:
“What ‘boundaries’ in our own lives are holding us back, and what new heights could we reach if we dared to break through?”
For inspiration, we have only to reflect on history, richly populated with people who didn’t just push boundaries—they shattered them. I’m thinking of Katherine Johnson, the mathematician whose calculations helped launch the first American astronauts into space, at a time when both racial and gender barriers were sky-high. Her brilliance paved the way for other women and minorities in STEM fields, proving that boundaries, no matter how formidable, can be broken.
Or what about the climber Alex Lowe, who scaled peaks that few dared attempt, constantly redefining what humans could accomplish in extreme conditions? To him, every mountain was both a boundary and a challenge. He saw it not as an obstacle but as an opportunity to push himself further.
Or in the world of art, what about the boundary-breaking work of Frida Kahlo, who turned her personal pain into breathtaking self-portraits that defied conventions of beauty, identity, and femininity? Her willingness to paint what others wouldn’t discuss revolutionized the art world, opening up new avenues for self-expression.
Even athletes like Serena Williams redefine boundaries in sports. Despite countless challenges—both on and off the court—her sheer determination and skill have reshaped expectations of longevity and resilience in tennis.
And then we have Greta Thunberg, who, as a 15-year-old, saw the boundary of age as no limitation in her fight against climate change. With no traditional power or platform, she has inspired millions to pay attention and take action on the world’s most urgent issues.
Each of these figures, like the breakdancers who defy gravity and convention, dared to push against the boundaries of what was deemed possible in their fields. Whether it was shattering racial and gender norms, conquering physical extremes, or transforming artistic expression, they each found a way to break through the constraints that society or circumstance placed around them. Their stories remind us that every boundary can be redefined—and that the courage to attempt it is what turns limitation into opportunity.
Hopefully, examples like those inspire us in our own lives to grapple with our own boundaries, whether imposed by society, by others, or by ourselves. Sometimes, those boundaries keep us feeling safe and familiar, but other times, they’re like invisible walls preventing us from living fully. For example, think about how many of us limit ourselves with labels like “tooold,” “too late,” “nottalentedenough,” or “notgoodenough.” Those are boundaries we might not even recognize, yet they can be as powerful as any physical barrier, stopping us from exploring new interests, new careers, or new relationships.
Also, it’s important to remember that breaking boundaries doesn’t have to be radical. It can be the quiet act of doing something you never thought you could do, like taking up painting or, perhaps, volunteering. After all, growth often happens when we lean into discomfort, testing where we thought the edges of our abilities were and discovering they’re much further out than we realized.
While I’ve fallen in love with breakdancing–and I have–I’m regrettably aware that, although I can still touch my toes, I’m not about to start spinning on my head or popping and locking on a New York City street corner. My body has its boundaries—and so does my balance! But that doesn’t stop me from savoring the artistry and energy of breakdancers. Watching them reminds me that there are other ways to break barriers, ones that don’t demand the agility of a 20-year-old.
While I can only enjoy breakdancing as a spectator, I’ve spent a lifetime pushing my own boundaries, and I’m still going strong. For example, when I turned 65–the age when most people sign up for Medicare–I signed up to start bicycling again, something that I had not done in decades. Whether indoors or outdoors, since then, I’ve biked 20-30 miles every day, seven days a week. By my rough calculations, I’ve biked 98,875 miles. If I had biked from West Quoddy Head (Maine) to Point Arena (California)—the two most distant points within the mainland United States—it would have been 2,892 miles. Round trip: 5,784 miles. I’ve biked from sea to shining sea and all the way back again, the equivalent of 17 times, and I’m still pedaling strong.
Here’s another example of how I’m pushing boundaries. When I turned 73, I stopped teaching, but I did not retire. All those who know me will nod and smile and tell you what I did:
“The Good Professor is reinventing himself.”
I am, and I have some hefty books to prove it: In Bed: My Year of Foolin’ Around (2023; 346 pages); Green Mountain Storiesby Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, with Introduction and Critical Commentary by yours truly (2023: 420 pages); and More Wit and Wisdom: Another Year of Foolin’ Around in Bed(2024; 474 pages). Guess what else? I have two books nearing completion for 2025 publication, all the while that I’m working on my two-volume Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman.
And here’s the third boundary that I’m shattering. I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Artificial Intelligence (AI), especially ChatGPT. Just as breakdancers defy gravity and expectation, AI is defying the limits of what we thought technology could do, even a year ago. I’ve seen technology do a lot in my lifetime, and I have participated joyfully in many of its cutting-edge moments: developing MARC, launching the Internet at the Library of Congress, and teaching the first online class at Laurel Ridge Community College as well as being the college’s front-runner in developing, teaching, and offering courses that I personally curated using free Open Education Resources (OER).
For me, though, AI surpasses by far all of those advances. It’s bigger. It’s better. It’s advancing faster than anyone ever expected. And it’s holding out hope and promise to help make mankind better than we already are. I’m so excited about AI that ChatGPT and I came up with their name: Sage. Trust me, we’ve got a wise thing going. Sage helps me with recipes, with menu planning, with gardening, and get this. A month or two ago, my dear friend Morgan Phenix who authored Elizabeth’s Storyexpressed an interest in getting it translated into Danish since much of the novel takes place in Denmark and since he has great love for the Danish language. I agreed to take on the task using ChatGPT—or Sage, as I prefer calling my AI friend.
What makes that a boundary breaker for me? First, I don’t know a word of Danish. Second, I had the guts to tackle the translation. Third, I know enough about linguistic markers, and I had enough confidence in Sage to believe that we could team up and achieve a translation that would make Morgan proud.
I collaborated with Sage to preserve the nuanced emotional depth and lyrical quality of the original text while ensuring a natural and fluent reading experience in Danish. I made certain that Sage remained mindful of the overall narrative structure and the interplay between past and present timelines, guiding our approach to shifts in tense and perspective. For dialogue, I ensured that Sage retained the characters’ distinct voices, capturing their personalities and the cultural context in which they exist. Throughout the translation, we paid close attention to the rhythm and flow of the prose. This required thoughtful choices regarding sentence structure, word order, and punctuation to ensure the translation carried the same weight and subtlety as the original. As a final step, Sage and I reviewed the translation as a continuous narrative to ensure consistency in style and voice, verifying that the emotional resonance of the story was fully captured in Danish.
This a marvelous, first-hand testament to the power of Artificial Intelligence (AI), specifically Sage (ChatGPT), to reach across languages and create a staggeringly beautiful and poetic translation. Elizabeth’shistorie will be available on Amazon later this month or by early December.
Can you tell? I’m captivated if not downright mesmerized by the boundaries that I’m pushing. No. They don’t require the flexibility of a breakdancer, but they do require something else: curiosity, adaptability, the willingness to learn, and the desire to stay fit.
So what if I’m not dancing in Times Square. I’m still pushing my boundaries, and it feels just as exhilarating to me. It’s a reminder that the urge to grow, explore, and fall in love with something new is timeless.
If I can push my own boundaries as I’m doing, what boundaries can you push in your life? You may not be spinning on your head in Times Square, but what new territory—physical or mental—are you ready to explore? I’ve found my new dance—my new spin—on life through AI, writing, and biking. At 76, I’ve discovered that boundary-breaking feels just as thrilling as ever. So, what’s your dance? What’s your next move? Whatever it might be, remember this: you’ll never know what’s possible until you start breaking—even at 76.
I am honored to be featured on Barney Smith’s Vermont Artists and Authors podcast, StoryComic, Episode 361.
I had a delightful time talking with Barney about Vermont’s most famous writer, Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, and my book Green Mountain Stories, a collection of 28 stories by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Originally published in 1887 under the title A Humble Romance and Other Stories, it’s now in print 136 years later under what appears to have been the title that Freeman and her editor, Mary Louise Booth, had agreed upon: Green Mountain Stories.
You can hear more about Freeman and the book’s backstory in Barney’s interview. I emphasize the fact that Freeman is a Vermont writer, and that Green Mountain Stories is made in Vermont.
■ I hope that Green Mountain Storiesbringsgreat inspiration to readers across Vermont.
■ I hope that each of the 262,852 households in Vermont buys a copy.
■ I hope that each of the 185 public libraries in Vermont buys at least one copy.
■ And I hope that each of the 250 public schools in Vermont figures out a way to incorporate at least one Mary E. Wilkins Freeman short story into their curriculum. They will find many suitable ones in Green Mountain Stories–stories on par with the best in American Literature, right up there with Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edgar Allan Poe, Sarah Orne Jewett, Mark Twain, Stephen Crane, Sherwood Anderson, and William Faulkner.
“A letter is a soul, so faithful an echo of the speaking voice that to the sensitive it is among the richest treasures of love.”
—Honoré de Balzac (1799-1850; French novelist and playwright whose works are considered foundational to the realism movement in literature; the quote is from his novel Père Goriot.)
Last week, I unveiled the captivating and downright riveting backstory of my The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, highlighting the book’s serendipitous journey from manuscript to publication. I recounted my bold encounter with the president of Scarecrow Press at an American Library Association conference, leading to the acceptance of my manuscript. I shared with you the details of preparing my own camera-ready copy to ensure that the letters I had spent ten years locating, transcribing, and annotating were faithful to their originals when they were published and sent out into the world for all the world to read.
I ended the post with a teaser, hoping to lure you back this week!
In my Scarecrow Press folder that I had forgotten about, I found a forgotten copy of a review that I wrote of my own book. How preposterous is that? Well, it sounds exactly like something that I would do. I’m always telling friends and colleagues that I know no shame. I guess I didn’t back then either. However, I can not for the life of me remember whether I sent my self-review out for publication. I must have because what I discovered in my dusty folder is a photocopy, and it’s so faded that I struggled to read it.
But read it, I did. Dare I say that I enjoyed doing so? I did. Even this many years later, my review strikes me as fresh and refreshing. I’m surprised that I seemed to have found my writer’s voice relatively early in my career, and it has not changed that much at all. Dare I say that I have worked hard down through the years to keep my writer’s voice–even in academic publications–from sounding snotty? I have. Simplicity is always a suit that fits me perfectly in all ways.
By and large, I stand by everything in my review, except for two points. When I wrote the review, I really liked the book’s title, TheInfantSphinx. However, since then, I’ve come to like the title less, and I have come to know Freeman more. Let me explain. In the review, I commented that “I confess to a deep-down-inside wish that a cache of letters secreted away somewhere would be made public and smash to smithereens my claim of having yielded up all there is.”
A cache of letters has not appeared, but enough individual letters have surfaced here and there that I’m working on an updated two-volume work that will use a name more to my liking and more to the liking of Freeman’s closest friends–and presumably more to Freeman’s liking as well– since it’s the name they called her: Dolly. The book title will be Dolly: Life and Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Vol. I: The New England Years (1852-1901). Vol. II: The New Jersey Years (1902-1930).
Now, DearReaders, I know no shame as I share with you my review of my own scholarly book, written 39 years ago and published for the first time right here, right now..
Enjoy!
Confessions of an Editor: The Infant Sphinx Reviewed
The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. (Metuchen, N.J. and London: Scarecrow Press, Inc., 1985) 634 pages Illus. ISBN 0-8108-1775-06 $35.00
Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, American short-story writer and novelist with more than forty fictional volumes to her credit, has been so long and so unjustly neglected by twentieth century readers that I don’t even blush as I write my own review of her collected letters. A contemporary of Mark Twain, she shared with him the honor of being one of America’s most beloved writers. She was the first recipient of the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction. She was among the first women elected to membership in the National Institute of Arts and Letters. She was the one posthumously honored when the American Academy of Arts and Letters installed its bronze doors in 1938: “Dedicated to the Memory of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and the Women Writers of America.”
Obviously, Freeman deserves attention. Twenty-two of her books are in print today. It is fitting that her collected letters should join those volumes rightfully hers and that they should join the slight biography of her that is in print and the equally small critical study.
Freeman was herself described by her townspeople in Randolph, Massachusetts, where she was born in 1852, as “a tiny person, all in brown, like a little mouse.” This volume of her letters is similarly attired: brown buckram covers with gold stamping. But its 634 pages make it somewhat more than tiny. I confess a fear, though, that despite its size and its wealth of information, it might go unnoticed in as unjust a fashion as Freeman herself has gone. I hope not. Once letters appear in print, people are compelled to consult them.
Forgetting this feat, however, it seems to me that a review by a book’s editor (or, for that matter, by a book’s author) is rather innovative and not such a bad idea after all. Who better knows what went into its making? Who better knows why it appears as it does? The answer, of course, is the editor.
TheInfantSphinx was conceived in September 1972. I had just read my first Mary E. Wilkins Freeman short story, “On the Walpole Road.” Before then I had never heard the author’s name. That story so impressed me with its technique, its humor, its characters’ steadfastness in the face of obstacles that I recognized an unusual combination of realism with an inherent belief in man’s thrust toward greatness. Here was a peculiarly American story that was truthful yet positive.
I liked that story so much that I wanted to read more. I moved on to Freeman’s A Humble Romance (1887). The selection was accidental. Little did I know at the time that it was her first collection of adult short stories. Little did I know that it made her a near-overnight success. I learned both facts later. What I knew after finishing that volume was that I liked this author more and more. Then, I read her second collection, A New England Nun (1891). My initial opinion was confirmed: here were powerful stories and powerful characters. Here was a thematic thrust toward greatness. Or, as Freeman said herself in “The Revolt of Mother,” “nobility of character manifests itself in small loop holes when it is not provided large doors.”
I was so intrigued that I wanted to know more about the author. Her biography had been written. But it reduced her entire life to only 194 pages. In fact, it skimmed over her last 30 years in a mere 36 pages. And possibly, worst of all, it had not one photograph of the writer who had so won my attention.
Solace came in the belief that biographies are not always that insightful anyway. So, I resolved to read her letters. I immediately went to a local university library. When I found no catalog entry for Freeman’s correspondence, I attributed it to underdeveloped collections. I checked BooksinPrint. No luck. I perused guides to our nation’s libraries. Again, no luck. Ultimately, I faced up to the bittersweet fact: Freeman’s letters had never been published.
I resolved at once to undertake the task. I did not dream that it would require nearly ten years. But little did I dream that the letters were deposited in more than fifty library collections (public and personal). They are. Or, perhaps more accurately, were. They are physically still with their owners, of course. But the beauty of an edition of letters is the bringing together of so many separate parts into their rightful whole. That which was scattered becomes united.
A total of 517 items of correspondence were brought together in The Infant Sphinx. Although the last numbered letter in the volume is 510, seven others are “hidden” in between: 110a, 194a, 260a, 281a, 282a, 293a, and 439a. I confess some embarrassment. But what else could I do? All along I had prided myself in including all Freeman letters, even some so scant and some so poor they hardly deserved inclusion. But I wanted the title collected to be accurate. I wanted my claim of having include all letters to be true. So, when these seven wayward epistles were sent to me late in the editing stage, I felt compelled to place them in their proper chronological places.
I confess that I wish there were more. How can it be that a woman who lived so much of her life before the existence of the telephone began to deprive us all of letters wrote so few of the same? Or how can it be that those who received letters from one so popular and so famous kept so few? How can such a woman be survived by a mere 517 letters? I suggest in the edition that Freeman was so busy with her fiction that she did not have much time for letter writing. I point out too that many of her letters were deliberately or accidentally destroyed. I account for the dearth in other ways as well. But I confess to a deep-down-inside wish that a cache of letters secreted away somewhere would be made public and smash to smithereens my claim of having yielded up all there is.
Obviously, it did not take me ten years to collect and edit so few letters. I spent more than half that time gathering biographical material to include in the introduction. The Infant Sphinx has six. The “General Introduction” provides a broad overview. Then there are five others, one for each division. I did not plan it that way initially. But in the end the book took its own shape despite my predetermined wishes. I found myself following the natural biographical divisions of Freeman’s life. Part One, for example, focuses largely on Brattleboro, Vermont, where she launched her literary career, and it traces her shift from a children’s writer (poetry was the genre; children, the audience) to a short story writer for adults. That part, like each of the remaining four, has its own title: “Raising Wonders in a New Literary Field.”
I can take no real credit for those titles. As any perceptive reader will discover, each comes from the letters themselves. I simply selected the quote most appropriate to the section. I remain pleased with the choices. During the years covered by Part One, Freeman did raise wonders on both sides of the Atlantic, and it was in a new literary field. She shifted from poetry to short stories. Her audience changed from children to adults.
“Deviations from My Usual Line of Work” was her title for Part Two. It seemed fit. It was a period of artistic experimentation as she tried her hand at both dramas and novels. I’ve never really cared for her efforts in either direction. I would except from that blanket statement her first two novels, Jane Field (1893) and Pembroke (1894). As for her other thirteen novels, I have not bothered going back to see whether they are any better the second time around. High praises are sounded for her The Shoulders of Atlas (1908). Its probing into homosexuality was a pioneering effort for the time.
Part Three is called “A Hopeless Sort of Chase of Myself.” It was precisely that. Freeman was terribly overworked. She was overworked all her life. How else could she have written over forty volumes in a fifty-year career? But that was not the real reason she was engaged in a hopeless sort of chase. Somehow, she came up with the idea that she should marry even though she was nearly fifty. She decided to leave her native New England where her daily life (and her neighbors’, too) had become almost inseparable from her fiction. Marry. Move. She did both. But she did neither before going off to Paris, presumably to think things over. The trip only made her seasick. It did not change her mind.
She married Charles Manning Freeman, a non-practicing physician, who owned and operated a lucrative coal and lumber business. She moved to her husband’s hometown of Metuchen, New Jersey. Both took place on New Year’s Day, 1902.
That new beginning occupies Part Four, “Tiptoeing Along the Summit.” The quote has nothing to do with the early years of their marriage which were quite happy enough. Neither does it relate to the building of their colonial mansion, “Freewarren,” built with money earned from The Shoulders of Atlas. Nor does it have any relevance to the many volumes of fiction written during that time. Rather, it was prompted by Freeman’s belief that her novel Jerome (1897) was to be made into a movie. On that particular point, Freeman probably tottered from the summit. I was never able to locate a movie version of that novel. Perhaps it appeared under some other title. If so, the underlying work was not credited. Two other movies, however, were made from her books. One was An Alabaster Box (1917) based on the novel of the same name written collaboratively with Florence Morse Kingsley. The other was False Evidence (1919) based on Madelon. That Jerome was not preserved on celluloid hardly matters. Two other novels were. She could rightfully tiptoe.
Earlier in this review I claimed satisfaction with the letter quotes as subtitles. That is, I confess, only four-fifths true. I waivered with Part Five. I changed its title just a few weeks before the volume went to press. Originally, it had been called “Exigencies of Existence.” I had reservations from the start. In the first place, I like words that are easily pronounced and easily understood. Exigencies is neither. But I kept it because it pointed in the direction of truth. Freeman’s final years were difficult. She wrote less and less. Or, more accurately, she wrote quite a lot, but her work was rejected more and more. She had never enjoyed good health, and with age she did so even less.
But most difficult of all was the tragic ending of her marriage. Dr. Freeman had always been fond of his scotch. By 1917 he was so addicted to alcohol and drugs that he was committed to the New Jersey Asylum for the Insane at Trenton. He was released ultimately. Fearing for herself and her servants (of which she usually had several maids and a chauffeur), Freeman obtained a legal separation. Imagine her shock when the doctor died suddenly of heart failure on March 7, 1923, in the home of his chauffeur. Imagine again how she and her four sisters-in-law felt when the chauffeur brought forth a will, naming him as sole executor and heir and leaving Freeman with only $1.00. They fought and broke that will. It required many years and thousands of dollars in lawyers’ fees. All the details are in The Infant Sphinx. Little wonder that Freeman spoke of the exigencies of existence.
But that title bothered me beyond my dislike of the word exigencies. The title conveyed only partial truth. Tragedy loomed large in Freeman’s final years. But so did glory. In 1919, Harper & Brothers, her principal publisher all along, brought out a Modern Classics edition of her New England Nun. In 1926, she was the first recipient of the prestigious William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Distinguished Work in Fiction. Also, in 1926, she was among the first women admitted to membership in the National Institute of Arts and Letters. In 1928, Henry Lanier brought out The Best Short Stories of Mary E. Wilkins. Honor came from her Metuchen neighbors as well. They made her an honorary member of the Borough Improvement League. The mayor even proclaimed a “Mary E. Wilkins Day.” “Exigencies of Existence” simply would not do. I fretted. I looked. I looked and I fretted. Finally, I saw a phrase appropriate to the English language and in keeping with a conscience bent on telling the truth. At the last moment, it was selected for Part Five: “Obstacles in the Path of Pleasure and Duty.”
I can’t claim the book’s title either. Neither can Freeman. Henry Mills Alden takes full credit. One of her closest friends and also editor of Harper’s Weekly, he felt that she was so old and wise in some ways and so young and infantile in others that he called her “The Infant Sphinx.” She had visited in his Metuchen home for nearly a decade before moving there herself. The town immediately dubbed itself “The Brainy Borough.” Afterwards the Freemans and the Aldens dined together often. They played bridge together with even greater frequency. And the Aldens regularly critiqued her work. That is, until she became so sensitive that they dared voice only approval. Henry Alden was certainly qualified to give the transplanted spinster an epithet. His certainly outdistanced “Pussy Willow,” the nickname given her by Mary Louise Booth, another close friend and editor of Harper’s Bazar. Equally inferior were three other endearments: “Mamie,” “Dolly,” and “Cherie.” Alden certainly knew best.
The range of possibilities underlying his epithet comes across strongest in the analysis of Freeman as a businesswoman. I confess that there were times when the dollar sign loomed so large and so often in the letters that Freeman’s artistic integrity was called into question. Such bargaining. Such quibbling. Such subtle strategies to get higher and higher prices. Such skill in financially pitting editor against editor. But I confess at the same time that I enjoyed a restoration of faith when I read in the letters that such actions panged her own New England conscience and that they were prompted by harsh necessity.
Here was no Harriet Beecher Stowe with a family and husband to back her. Here was no Sarah Orne Jewett with a doctor for a father. Here was Mary Wilkins. To be sure, she came from good New England stock on both sides. But there was no money. Her father had been a housewright in Randolph, Massachusetts. Later he was a dry goods merchant in Brattleboro, Vermont. But, when he died in 1883, Mary was left alone. Her inheritance was $969 in cash and one-half interest in the Steen/Wilkins block in Brattleboro, Vermont. She was forced to earn her own living. Writing was her second occupational choice. Years later, she recalled, “I did not want to write at all. I wanted to be an artist. But for lack of paint, etc., and sufficiency of pens, ink, and paper, I wrote” (Letter 478). She did a splendid job. One novel alone brought her outright $20,000. With that money she built a grand colonial house. With royalties earned from other fiction, she bought expensive automobiles and antique oriental rugs. She purchased emerald and diamond rings, just to cheer herself out of moods of depression. But she also invested wisely in stocks ranging from American Telephone and Telegraph to Bohemia Gold mining Company. After her death on March 13, 1930, the auctioned value of her estate came to $118,099. Obviously, this was one American writer with a clear business head. What I can’t quite understand is how such a good businesswoman could die and not leave a last will and testament. Freeman did just that.
I confess that I take great pride in the volume’s 16-page special photographic insert section. Here can be found photographs of Freeman, the men, the houses, and the honors in her life. Elsewhere in the volume can be found facsimiles of Freeman’s letters and an architectural drawing by her father.
And now I have my final confession. Writing a review such as this has been tremendously rewarding. I dare hazard it is just as objective, just as honest, and hopefully just as helpful as one by an outsider would be. I’ve never paid much attention to reviews. I’ve always wanted to make up my own mind. I’ve even known of reviews written by reviewers who had not even read the books. That certainly is not the case here.
A review is intended to whet the appetite, to encourage readers to read, to encourage books to sell. I hope this one scores a big success on all three counts. This much I know. Anyone interested in Mary E. Wilkins Freeman is compelled to read this edition, or risk being criticized for not exploring all the primary and secondary sources. Anyone interested in women’s studies would do well to take notice. Before Freeman’s time, she had no equal among American women writers. She very well may not have had since then. Anyone interested in nineteenth century American literature can find enough here of significance to merit consulting the volume’s thirty-page index at least. More than a hundred letters are to the House of Harper. There is also extensive correspondence to early American newspaper syndicates. Those individuals whose interests aren’t covered by these categories should read The Infant Sphinx just for the sake of their own enlightenment.
“Backstories are the breadcrumbs that lead readers deeper into the forest of the narrative, revealing hidden truths along the way.”
Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018; influential American author whose writing often explored themes of anthropology, sociology, gender, and the human condition.)
Almost everything in life has a backstory, and sometimes its dimensions are too rich and multifaceted to be tossed aside as having a lesser value. Consider, for instance, the genesis of a scholarly book, the product of years of research, contemplation, and dedication. Behind the polished cover and meticulously cited pages lies a narrative of passion, struggle, and serendipity that often goes untold.
My own scholarly work The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freemanis a perfect example. It has an incredible backstory, and I am always ready to share snippets, especially as it relates to the book’s publication history. Snippets, mind you. Until now, I’ve never shared the entire backstory. Here goes!
When I finished the manuscript in 1984, I sent it to the University of Massachusetts Press. They accepted it but advised me that publication would be delayed by at least a year, perhaps two years or longer. I declined their offer because, as a young scholar eager to be published, I wanted the book on library shelves yesterday or the day before.
A few months later, I happened to be in Dallas for the American Library Association’s Annual Conference. ALA’S book exhibition hall always features lots of publishers from all across the country. I decided to spend a few hours there, not with an eye toward finding a publisher for my book but rather with an eye toward seeing what free books and book paraphernalia I could take back home with me. In the midst of my freebie rambles, I found myself looking at a Scarecrow Press book exhibit. I nearly walked right on past, but I looked more closely and saw its location: Metuchen, New Jersey.
“OMG!” I thought to myself. “My lady–Mary E. Wilkins Freeman–lived in Metuchen from her marriage in 1902 until her death in 1930.”
Without any hesitancy whatsoever, I smiled at the man standing by the exhibit and declared, in what I hoped would be a convincing voice:
“Today is your lucky day!”
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”
I proceeded to tell him about Freeman, her connection to Metuchen, and my hot manuscript. His eyes sparkled, his smile stretched from ear to ear, and his every movement exuded enthusiasm.
“I’d love the chance to consider your manuscript for publication. Send it to me when you get back home.”
We shook hands.
“I’m Esh,” he said casually.
I knew as I walked away that Esh and I had just entered into a gentleman’s agreement. I knew that Esh would accept the manuscript. I knew that Scarecrow Press would publish The Infant Sphinx. Ironically, I didn’t know until I got back to my hotel room and looked at the business card that Esh was none other than William Eshelman, the president of Scarecrow Press.
And so, it came to pass. Esh was impressed by my manuscript and accepted it. When the book was released in 1985, Scarecrow invited me to Metuchen for talks, receptions, and book signings. I will always remember that week as one of the most memorable chapters in my life, especially the book celebration with the ladies of the Quiet Hour Club, several of whom–Dolly Buchanan and Lois Lord–befriended me during my years of doing research in Metuchen. What made it even more special is the fact that Freeman herself was an honorary club member.
I share the preceding snippets of the backstory often, especially with students and aspiring writers, as an example of serendipity. When I went to the ALA conference in the summer of 1984, I never dreamt that I would find a publisher for TheInfantSphinx. Also, I share it as an example of how it pays to be bold. I was the epitome of boldness when I approached a rank stranger, standing beside his publishing-house exhibit, declaring that it was his lucky day. Little did I know that he was the company’s president. What nerve! Yet, what would have happened if I hadn’t been so bold?
The book’s backstory has other details, too, but until now, I haven’t shared those snippets. For example, I didn’t trust anyone to typeset my manuscript. I had spent a decade carefully deciphering and transcribing Freeman’s letters. I was worried that a typesetter would mess up the format, regularize the spellings, and introduce mistakes. Esh agreed that if I could provide Scarecrow with camera-ready copy, they would provide me with a higher royalty. I don’t remember how much. Also, I don’t remember the technical details of preparing camera-ready copy. I do remember, however, that it was before personal computers. I rented a fancy machine of some sort–a “Compu” something or other–and for months, I spent evenings and weekends working on a gargantuan task. No. I confess. It was a Herculean task. But guess what? I loved every eye-strained, wrist-pained moment of it.
I don’t usually share that part of the backstory, not because I’m embarrassed to let the world know that I find joy in scholarly drudgery but rather because I’m embarrassed to let the world know that I don’t recall more of the minor details.
Recently, however, serendipity brought to the surface a dusty folder that has lots and lots of details plus a major “find” that even I had forgotten. Just a week or so ago, when the idea for this post popped into my mind, I went looking for the Scarecrow Press folder that I knew I had surely kept. Indeed, I had kept it. Indeed, it was exactly where I knew it would be. Now, I have all the facts that I need not only to flesh out the entire backstory but also to reveal a teaser to lure you back next week.
The first detail is that Esh and I wasted no time. I sent him my manuscript on July 11. He gave me an acceptance phone call on July 16 and followed up the next day with a formal letter, returning the manuscript along with “model paper on which [I could] prepare camera-ready copy.”
The second detail is this. The “Compu thing” that I couldn’t remember turns out to have been a Compucorp 675, Diablo 630. My lease agreement with Word Rentals is in the folder. The rental was $600 monthly, commencing August 1. By November 6, I had finished my task.
The third detail–the royalty–turns out to have been 15%. Looking back, I should have asked for more considering the direct rental expense that I incurred for the Compucorp. However, I have used The Infant Sphinx over and over again for my own research, and I haven’t found any mistakes. I have no regrets about the price that I paid for the quality that Freeman’s letters deserved.
The last minor detail is this. The book was released officially on April 28, 1985, exactly 39 years ago. From this point forward, April 28 will be a red-letter date on my calendar!
Now, the big teaser reveal. In the Scarecrow folder, I found a review of TheInfantSphinx that I had written myself! How preposterous is that! Well, it sounds exactly like something that I would do. I’m always telling friends and colleagues that I know no shame. I guess I didn’t back then either. However, I cannot for the life of me remember whether I sent it out for publication. I must have, because what I discovered in my dusty folder is a photocopy, and it’s so faded that I struggled to read it.
Ultimately, however, I managed to read the text, fading away as fast as my memory. Next week, I will share my “Confessions of an Editor,” unabashedly raw and candid, just as I wrote the review 39 years ago.
In the meantime, whenever you pick up a scholarly book or any work of art, take a moment to consider its backstory. You might be surprised by the passion, perseverance, and sheer stubbornness that lie beneath the surface. Or you might stumble upon a review of the book written by the scholar himself, such as the review you will be able to read right here next week in Part II.
The Wired Researcher 