For someone who's so good because she understands that the personal in itself isn't worth a damn and that emotional clouding's for amateurs, Joan Didion has inspired a lot of gushing. V.L. Hartmann touches on this in a lovely essay today, acknowledging that while the incisive Didion is not "the most maternal of literary idols", for all that

I am not alone in my generation in thinking of her as a sort of mother figure. In 2006, she had a public conversation with then Paris Review editor Philip Gourevitch at Summer Stage in Central Park, and the crowd was filled with over a hundred people in their twenties and thirties, many gazing at her with adoration. She read from The Year of Magical Thinking and tears streamed down the faces of girls who clutched copies of her books.

When I've seen Didion read or talk (I wrote about one such instance here) - and it's something you do, if she's reading, and if you can, because she's a bedroom saint - it's kind of like that. The disconnect between what she's saying and writing and the palpable veneration is always kind of jarring. Ironically, for all her detachment, we all feel we know her. She has transcended her work and become a figure of tragedy and a national treasure. As a keen student of hero-worship, Didion herself must find it fascinating.

Hartmann adds that for many young women, Didion is the spectrum through which we view our mothers' generation as well as the model for female writers. Of course, there are those who would argue that in many ways Didion's voice was heightened and sharpened by the necessity of writing in a man's world, that like many women of her generation her fiction needed to be brittle to avoid sentimentality. Didion lovers might find that a strength, but she of all people would surely want the historical pointed out with due detachment. But, see? I'm falling into it too. Although the most idiosyncratic of voices and frank of literary personalities, a lot of us have made her a figurehead and projected on our own qualities and wishful qualities. The author was prompted to write her tribute when she saw Didion on the street, tiny and fragile-looking, and found reality and mythology colliding. She concludes, "I grew up with her writing, but she wrote none of it for me. It was enough to know on that cold afternoon that I was there and she was there." I'd add, at this point she hardly needs to be, because we all have the idea. (And no, I'm not talking about the erotica...which was, it should be said, for an erotica contest at a Valentine's Day party. Still.)
Joan Didion Crosses The Street [The Morning News]
Related: Joan Didion Is Kind Of A Downer About The Election

Says the Wall Street Journal,

Academics never have known quite what to do with Jackson. They often resist canonizing writers who dabble in genre categories and enjoy mass appeal. Yet Jackson's reputation has grown rather than diminished. Next June, the Library of America will publish a thick volume of her work, edited by Joyce Carol Oates.

Jackson had a thriving career writing light domestic pieces, although nowadays she's better remembered for her spine-tingling stories of human perfidy and otherworldly menace. Everyone's read "The Lottery" in school, just one of many amazing short stories - "The Mouse" and "My Uncle in the Garden" are just two that have refused to budge from my conscious. Her last novel, We Have Always Lived in the Castleis haunting and disturbing and has a well-deserved cult following. And then there's Hill House: For those of you who've read the book, or seen the excellent adaptation, you know the drill: several motley subjects - including a beautiful and enigmatic socialite, a playboy, and a high-strung, sheltered protagonist - agree to do a test in a spooky New England mansion to help determine the presence of the paranormal. What follows is not just deeply scary in the best gothic tradition, but plays into lots of deeper issues of women, loneliness, and the power of imagination.

Loneliness and the often ugly dynamic between people (especially women) is an ongoing theme in Jackson's work. Families and homes aren't refuges but sources of despair and [persecution and treachery. You come away from it, not just scared, but uneasy - her universe is not a pleasant one. And yet she has an eye for delicate description, an appreciation for quotidian detail (the menus in WHALITC are, not incidentally, fantastically-rendered) that's a pleasure to read. Her characters veer between lonely and steely, but no one is one-dimensional; there's always enough compassion to keep them real. Reading her is a submersion; she also takes well to being read aloud.

If you get the chance, Jackson's biography, Private Demons, is interesting: a dutiful faculty wife ("The Lottery" was apparently a dig at Bennington) Jackson also struggled with alcohol and overeating and, later, mental illness. She was often deeply depressed. She died at 48. It could not have been easy to have inhabited the world she did - even if it gave birth to such wonders. It's terrific that we're able to duck into it for a few chilling hours - and a relief that we can leave, even if hers are the stories that stay with you.

Chilling Fiction. . . [WSJ]
Shirley Jackson [Tabula Rasa]

With her new novel, Feminista, author Erica Kennedy seeks to use Zamora's story as a springboard to pioneer a brand new genre: "bitch lit." And not a moment too soon. Chick lit, the popular and fluffy genre geared toward women readers, is having a bit of an identity crisis. Even Plum Sykes, of Bergdorf Blondes fame, is ready to throw in the towel on the genre:

[Sykes] was skeptical that a new genre of chick lit could emerge from the recession, partly because she believes we've already seen the last of the "sex and shopping book as a publishing phenomenon". She added: "Chick lit seems so out of date now. Not only because of the economic reality but because it's been done to death."

The recession hit, taking the sugary tales of credit card backed retail therapy with it and leaving authors in a panic. Would people still relate to their characters if they stopped living charmed lives? For some reason, publishers seem to think "recessionista reads" are the next hot trend. I'm fairly skeptical, myself - after all, half the fun of a fluffy novel is the escape from reality.

Lakshmi Chaudhry agrees in a sense, writing for LiveMint.com:

The literary problem with the current economic debacle is that its architects are irremediably inane, self-absorbed and shallow-and, therefore, perfect for chick lit-the first fictional genre to wholeheartedly embrace the recession. Hedge Fund Wives by Tatiana Boncompagni, Social Lives by Wendy Walker, The Penny Pinchers Club by Sarah Strohmeyer and The Summer Kitchen by Karen Weinreb detail the travails of affluent women suddenly burdened with shrinking bank balances and AWOL or, worse, imprisoned banker husbands.

What's a Fifth Avenue socialite to do? Tap into her girl power, of course. "One of the big motifs in these books is a sort of empowerment," says Jonathan Segura, an editor at Publishers Weekly, who told The New York Times, "Swathed in Gucci, Prada and what not, their protagonists realign their priorities and realize, ‘Oh, I don't need that Givenchy gown. I can look great in Eileen Fisher, too'". Sacrifice, it's the American way!

But is that what readers want? Listening to the whine of the formerly privileged whose recent brush with brokeness forced them to reflect on the meaning of life seems more like torture than pleasure. And our current cultural mood seems to go between more serious matters (like politics and the economy) with straight up escapism (werewolves, faeries, and vamps, oh my!)

Perhaps writers and publishers could pay more attention to the lives of the women that create their audience. Many of us are scared for our jobs and cutting back, but that doesn't manifest in maniacal penny pinching or schadenfreude. Some times, tapping into this particular type of economic strain, is as simple as allowing your character's thoughts to roam. A good example of this is a highly relateable passage in Feminista:

Sydney had no desire to be that rich. Every rich kid she'd ever known had been completely fucked in the head. She didn't even aspire to be average rich, but seeing that kind of obscene wealth up close made her life seem so small and insignificant. For the last month, she had been agonizing, agonizing, over whether she should waste three hundred dollars on a pair of fucking shoes! She compulsively saved her pennies, never splurging on herself unless she could write it off, and for what? To buy a tiny apartment that was the size of that spoiled bitch's linen closet?

She used to think that if she just had enough, she'd be happy. Enough money in the bank, a decent apartment, a little disposable income to go on a modest vacation or two a year. After reading a widely e-mailed Times story about $200,000 being the new $100,000, she had to ask herself what exactly constituted enough? Before she had finished grappling with that question, the paper of record ran a chilling piece about millionaires in Silicon Valley who didn't feel rich because they lived among people who had tens of millions. Before clicking to the second page, Sydney had to stop and pop a Xanax. The quest for "enough" was what got her out of bed every morning. It was what kept her going when she wanted to give away all of her worldly possessions and move to a tropical island and sell handmade trinkets on the beach. She didn't want to ponder the idea that "enough" was unattainable, that it was a constantly moving goal she might never reach. Because that would force her to confront the possibility that her entire life's course had been charted with a faulty compass. And why put herself through that when she could just self-medicate?

Whether it's chick lit or bitch lit, romance novels or paranormal smut, the key to any selling any story lies in sympathetic characters and the willingness of an audience to want to walk through the world created between a novel's pages.

So, I suppose, the fate of chick lit rests squarely on one key question: what is the audience looking for?

Feminista [Amazon]
End of a chapter: chick lit takes on the credit crunch [The Independent]
Sex and shopping chick lit makes way for recessionista reads as credit crunch leaves its mark on the book shelves [Daily Mail]
How the recession has fuelled chick lit [Live Mint]
Paranormal Smut Novels [Feministe]

I'll confess, I've only read five of the famously prolific Weldon's more than 30 novels, plus of course her ubiquitous journalism, contrarian critiques, and her invariably entertaining appearances on the BBC. I enjoyed them more as portraits of a time, of a psyche, of the position of women writers than I did as works of lit, stringent and often funny though they can be. Weldon, along with Doris Lessing and Germaine Greer, is one of those writers defined as "feminist," and proud of it - and like Lessing or Friedan, she's one of those who lived as adults in the pre-feminist world. But she's also of the generation that, being of the true vanguard, sometimes seems as addicted to contrarianism, to the opposition of doctrine, as to set-in-stone principles. And that's why she's so interesting (and frustrating to many), as an interview in the Guardian , prompted by her latest novel, makes clear.

Weldon was always atypical: the daughter of a writer who left her husband during Weldon's childhood, Fay (born, rather awesomely, "Franklin Birkinshaw") studied psyc and econ in the early 50s, had a child out of wedlock, married and divorced when it was still outre, and carried on a career after her marriage. Her novels - the best-known are surely The Life and Loves of a She-devil and Praxis, dealt with women oppressed by the Patriarchy. But Weldon was always contrary, and at times has seemed as heedless of the opinions of the feminist establishment she helped promote - and who, some would argue, made her iconic - as of the old order she opposed. She's never had a problem changing her mind: After years of avowed atheism, she converted, a few years ago, to Christianity. She makes no secret to her devotion to celebrity gossip on the Daily Mail website, her plastic surgery, or for her unapologetically commercial work for Bulgari.

She's also critical of modern feminism; she, along with Doris Lessing, notoriously declared that "Our duty now is to become masculinist. It is time we looked after the self esteem of the little boys...Feminism was a revolution that happened. It was an amazing movement that worked. Everything is completely different to what it was 25 years ago.But what happens with all revolutions is they become the Establishment.

She has advocated faking orgasms. And in 1998, she made waves when, speaking of her own sexual assault, declared that rape "isn't the worst thing that can happen to a woman...rape is nasty, death is worse."

In the current interview, she declares, among many, many other things (and do read the whole thing),

She recently said the problem with most feminists was that they were so boring. "They're getting a bit better, because at least they are more interested in women in other lands," she says. "In the last five years, it has been so inward-looking – they have been worried about pay gaps, worried about the minutiae of things – that it got up its own arse. Now, [the feminist movement is] looking outside – you see what's happening to women in Afghanistan and you see the necessity of fighting back. You need to work in those areas. It is too easy for women [in the west] to see themselves as victims and oppressed by men. I think one has to be more rational."

It's this sort of remark - a combination of good sense, hyperbole, gratuitous dismissal, condescension, and contrariness - that will, I think, be Weldon's true legacy. Was she a feminist icon? In a way - as she puts it, "It became obvious that you had to be a feminist because it was such a ridiculous state of affairs." She calls herself "the only feminist there is" of her generation, and in a certain sense, nowadays, she's right: she was, and is, a "choose-your-choices" modern feminist before that was kosher. But whether that's regarded as bravery and independence, or merely weakness when the world needed rigor, the truth is that I think it's this very quality that exempts Weldon from the pantheon of feminist icons. In a sense, she is perhaps a "true" feminist - certainly her real respect for a woman's individual choices, her ability to be an individual, are as feminist as it gets, to my way of thinking. But she faught against being defined by ideology, and she wasn't. And as a result, she is distinct from a figure like Germaine Greer who, while perhaps more doctrinaire, provided a strict and recognizable framework when one didn't exist. Weldon was, and is, an individual - that was her choice, and her legacy, but that can make someone a lot harder to fit into history.

'I'm The Only Feminist There Is – The Others Are All Out Of Step' [Guardian]
Fay Weldon Turns From Feminism To Boy Power [Independent]
Fay Weldon: Rape Isn't The Worst Thing That Can Happen [BBC]
Lie back and think of Jesus [Guardian]
'If you want to find true happiness, just fake it' [Guardian]
How The Spice Girls Have Killed Feminism, Subverted Morality And Embarassed Us All [Daily Mail]

As Amy Chozick writes in the Wall Street Journal,

Behind the smooth-talking, chain-smoking, misogynist advertising executives on "Mad Men" is a group of women writers, a rarity in Hollywood television. Seven of the nine members of the writing team are women. Women directed five of the 13 episodes in the third season. The writers, led by the show's creator Matthew Weiner, are drawing on their experiences and perspectives to create the show's heady mix: a world where the men are in control and the women are more complex than they seem, or than the male characters realize.

One thing that's a fascinating echo - and refutation - of the show's plotline is the number of women who rose up through the ranks. Jennifer Getzinger started as a script supervisor and has become a director. Writer Kater Gordon was a babysitter for creator Matt Weiner's sons, impressed him with her acumen, and started as his assistant. One assumes there was less clawing - and far less degradation - than in Peggy Olson's rise from secretary to copywriter; but that these writers might particularly relish her ascent.

One particularly striking quote from the piece: "A lot of people think women can only do women shows," says one of the writers. It's ironic that a show shedding so much light on the prejudices of another era should come out of one of the most backward. 80% of Writers Guild members are male, and only 27% of TV writers are women. When women do write - Tina Fey, Nora Ephron, or a creator like Joss Whedon encourages female writers - it's considered newsworthy.

Yesterday I wrote on an Esquire article that called for "better chick flicks" that men could get into. Well, Mad Men is widely considered to be the best-written show on TV, a "men's show" whose secret is its women - onscreen and off. But there's an irony at work: these women are writing about characters working in a male ghetto - and being regarded not as members of the team but as aberrations - while living it. People think female writers are Sex and the City; I'm guessing this, paradoxically, is a more accurate portrait.

The Women Behind ‘Mad Men' [WSJ]
On Being a Female Writer in the TV Business [Huffington Post]
OK, So Teens Don't Tweet. But Pretend People LOVE Twitter! [AdAge]

The first thought about Rachel Cooke's profile was, "man, these British journalists are harsh!" Take this description of the 50-year-old Mail masochist: "She is seemingly addicted to fake tan, so she is always a slightly unnatural shade of caramel. She has suffered from anorexia since she was a child, so her round face has always been balanced on a preternaturally thin body."

I mean, don't get me wrong, Jones dishes it out. This is the woman who's called children "germ-brewing sprogs," American women "mindbogglingly stupid" and one politician's wife's outfit as "befitting a six-year-old with attention deficit disorder" with the makeup of an "Eastern Europe refugee." Jones' persistent self-flagellation and orange-levels of overexposure have led more than one reader to question her stability. Most recently, Jones has penned a memoir, The Exmoor Files: How I Lost A Husband and Found Rural Bliss, which chronicles her brutal divorce (with which regular readers are all too familiar) and the healing effects of buying a bucolic farm and relocating there to live with a number of rescue animals, including a cat ("my fur baby"), a dog ("my new boyfriend") and the horses, one of them agoraphobic, who wear boots, require the services of masseur, chiropractic and psychic.

This, you see, is in contrast to a life in which Jones' OCD got out of control (she vacuumed her lawn) and her marriage degenerated into recrimination and desperation. (Her attempts to keep it going, says Cooke, "included oral sex on demand: 'I didn't even stop when one of my sharp back teeth caused an ulcer.'") The new life, according to the memoir, though, feels anything but idyllic. Indeed, Cooke calls it "neurotic, incontinent, contradictory." Because Jones' oversharing has not changed. (Her latest column deals with her plastic surgeries and the sadness of aging.) Says the article,

In Somerset locals have taken exception to the fact that she has written that none of the menfolk over about 40 are in possession of their own teeth, and that the food served in local pubs is heated-up rubbish. She has also described her violent crush on a man whose wife is one of the few locals to have been friendly to her.

So, what's with the urge towards masochism? As the article points out, "the kind of writing she does leaves her marooned on a sad little island of self from which there is, apparently, no way back to shore." Jones says she's lost all her friends, wants no love life (she finds sex "quite tiring and repetitive... it's such an odd thing to do") and is miserable, but she doesn't want the therapeutic intervention many a concerned reader has suggested. "I don't want to be sorted out. This is who I am...You have to have a certain amount of self-esteem to think you're worth saving. I don't care about myself enough to change." The author is highly skeptical about the combination of ego and allegedly low self-esteem that characterizes Jones' columns - a mix of self-pity, self-denigration and obvious self-obsession - but it doesn't seem weird to me. Jones is a deeply unhappy woman, with the narcissist's conviction that she's speaking for others who lack the courage to admit what she does, but she couldn't have the career she does if we didn't want it.

Sylvia Plath is often maligned for launching a thousand confessionals, but it was she who said, "One should be able to control and manipulate experiences, even the most terrifying, like madness...with an informed or intelligent mind...it should be relevant." As art, yes; as entertainment, the three-car-pileup voyeurism will do just fine, thanks. Jones is among the most extreme example of this phenomenon, and perhaps the most disturbing, but she's hardly unique. What is perhaps most distressing about her is that it's hard to know - probably for her as well as us - where the reality ends and the story begins. Surely she heightens the drama of her responses, but at what point does that effect those responses? And then too, putting it out there in such a public way, and refusing to treat obvious problems, normalizes - even legitimizes - them for readers: what, 50 years ago, would have seemed mad, is now quotidian, and it's a vicious cycle. If Jones is really unwell, her column is unethical. If she's not, it's manipulative. The truth, probably, lies somewhere between the two. We were glad to learn, though, that she likes Irene Dunne screwball comedies; no life containing The Awful Truth can be all bad.

Enough about me [Guardian]
Question Time: Liz Jones, Fashion Editor [Independent]
Rupert Everett Looks Great, But I'd Rather Grow Old Gracefully Over A Long Lunch Or Two [Daily Mail]
Sylvia Plath Interview [YouTube]

[London, June 3. Image via Getty]

LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM - JUNE 03: Marilynne Robinson, winner of the Orange Prize for Fiction 2009, poses with her award at the Royal Festival Hall on June 3, 2009 in London, England. (Photo by Frantzesco Kangaris/Getty Images)