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HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO

The support male writers get from their wives is well documented. But what about women writers? What help can we expect from our partners? Debbie Taylor celebrates the men in our lives.

‘For years she handled all my secretarial work, answering letters, reading to me, taking down my dictation,’ wrote Jorge Luis Borges of his mother. ‘It was she who quietly and effectively fostered my literary career.’ The support many leading male authors received from their womenfolk during their lives is legendary.

Simone de Beauvoir ‘filtered’ Jean Paul Sartre’s writing; Tolstoy’s wife transcribed and edited – some say improved on – his mammoth tomes; Thomas Mann’s wife, Katia, made it her business to ‘see to it that he had the best circumstances for his work’.

In A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf wrote: ‘There were the biographies of Johnson and Goethe and Carlyle and Sterne and Cowper and Shelley and Voltaire and Browning and many others. And I began thinking of all those great men who have... some need of and dependence upon certain persons of the opposite sex.’

Today little has changed. Martin Amis once said that you can’t be a writer if you have to do the laundry – leaving us in little doubt about the domestic arrangements in his household. Dick Francis readily admits his wife’s creative involvement in his bestselling novels. The examples mount up and up. ‘I really envy Sebastian Faulkes,’ sighs novelist Kate Saunders. ‘He has this wonderful wife, who keeps the children out of his way when he’s working.’

Poet Eva Salzman believes that male writers actually make a point of trying to attract competent nurturing women by ‘cultivating a level of practical helplessness that verges on the life-threatening’. ‘The majority of male writers I know,’ she writes, ‘are unable to drive, do taxes, make phonecalls, talk to plumbers, cook anything more complex than an omelette’.

She’s withering about their worldly incompetence, but she may be missing the point. It may be that creativity actually requires a certain level of unworldliness – at least for the duration of the creative act – and that a partner who can protect and sustain those periods of unworldliness is what all writers, not just male writers, need. As Deborah Shepherd points out in her book about creative couples, ‘people very rarely achieve extraordinary feats of artistic production without the sustenance of at least one significant other who believes in and supports the artist in his or her quest’ (Between the Lives, Auckland University Press, 2005).

Ruth Perry refers to this support as ‘mothering the mind’. The book of the same name she co-edited examined the lives of 15 great authors – including Jonathan Swift, William Wordsworth, Samuel Johnson, Alice Walker, Gertrude Stein and Virginia Woolf – and concluded that their achievements would not have been possible without the nurturing presence of ‘silent partners’ to provide the safe and supportive environment that fostered each author’s creativity (Mothering the Mind, Edited by Ruth Perry and Martine Watson Brownley, Holmes and Meier, 1984).

The tasks these silent partners performed ranged from the mundane to the arcane: Alice B Toklas typed for Gertrude Stein; Leonard Woolf made sure the depressed and driven Virginia ate properly, as well as discussing her writing in depth with her; George Eliot’s profoundest inspirations came, it is said, during periods of postcoital calm with her lover and literary mentor, George Lewes; Hester Thrale stayed up until the small hours talking to Samuel Johnson about his work – and caned him, at his behest, when he was in the grips of one of his agitated depressions.

Perry believes that the security such ‘necessary others’ provide is a prerequisite for creative activity. Following Sigmund Freud, she draws a parallel between artistic activity and play, which, according to Freud, helps children ‘work over in the mind some overpowering experience so as to make [themselves] master of it’.

Both children’s play and adult art take place in what Perry refers to as a ‘transitional psychic area halfway between inner and outer reality, between dreaming and “real life”, a special psychological space that is set aside from ongoing duties and daily requirements.’ Both play and art often entail complete concentration and utter absorption – which is why the ‘necessary other’ is so important: to keep the child/artist safe and hold the rest of the world at bay. According to D W Winnicott – pioneer of infant psychology – it is only in conditions of security that: ‘the infant is able to become unintegrated, to flounder, to be in a state in which there is no orientation... The stage is set for an id experience.’

Poet U A Fanthorpe’s characterises the support she receives in her enduring partnership with Rosie Bailey as ‘maintenance’, a mixture of physical and psychological care, celebrated in the poem ‘Atlas’ – a true mothering of the mind that ‘keeps my suspect edifice upright’ (see inset). As Virginia Woolf concluded: ‘Every Johnson has his Thrale’.

Though Perry refers to this caring as ‘mothering the mind’, it is clear that the nurturing presence is not always, or necessarily, female. Perhaps we need another verb to describe the role of the ‘necessary other’ – and I wonder if the old verb ‘to husband’ would serve. Defined by Chambers as ‘to conserve; to cultivate’, it would seem to describe the role of a male partner in many creative women’s lives.

Rereading all the interviews we’ve published in Mslexia over the years, it’s striking how often a supportive partner is mentioned. Novelist Rose Tremain was full of praise for her husband, the biographer Richard Holmes, who is the only person to see her early drafts and who helps with her rewrites. ‘He’s very very enabling,’ she enthuses. ‘Clearheaded, clever, very affectionate.’ Andrea Levy’s designer husband reads and comments on her work – and paid the bills for the 10 years before the multi-award-winning Small Island provided her with a decent income of her own. Novelist Barbara Trapido cheerfully acknowledges having been ‘a kept woman’ by her tenured Oxford academic spouse while she produced her wonderfully perky and profound novels; Pat Barker and Kate Clanchy are also married to academics.

Award-winning poet Kathleen Jamie’s self-employed husband safeguards her writing time by ‘doing heroic amounts of childcare’. Sophie Hannah’s hubby ‘loves playing with two year-olds’. And novelist Monica Ali’s epiphany might never have happened if her husband hadn’t whisked off their two under-threes for a fortnight one summer, when she was gripped by the surge of creative determination that resulted in the first chapters of Brick Lane.

You don’t have to read very far into Julie Myerson’s narrative non-fiction book, Home, to see the breadth of support she gets from her husband Jonathan: doggedly scouring electoral registers and sending off letters to help her track down ‘all the people who have ever lived in our house’. She tells me he also does her accounts. Orange Prize founder Kate Mosse’s husband Greg actually changed his name to hers when they got married, and put his own writing on hold while she finished her novel, Labyrinth. Jung Chang’s scholarly partner, Jon Halliday, seems content playing second banana as she reaps the credit for their co-authored blockbuster biography of Mao.

But it goes against the grain these days for a feminist to admit she needs, or has received, the help of her partner. Our successes have been so hard won; our independent status so recent in historical terms. It’s not so long ago that a woman’s achievements were automatically assumed to be the result of some man’s help or patronage. When I was writing drama documentaries for television in the Eighties, I kept quiet the fact that I was living with the director, terrified he would be credited for my work if it was known we were an item. But he did help me enormously: not with the writing, but with the organisation that brought the projects to fruition – and gave me the space to be creative. When we split up it was not his love I missed so much as his make-it-happen skills.

But when we called (tongue-in-cheek, I admit) for nominations for a Writer’s Companion Award (see column) – to celebrate the help we Mslexics receive from our partners – only three women responded. (Three! Out of 20,000 readers!) And they were easily outnumbered by those of you who objected to the very idea (see Letters, issue 26, page 5).

Part of me wants to agree with the objectors. Because, yes, of course we should expect men to do their fair share of the domestics. And, no, we shouldn’t have to grovel with gratitude whenever a J-cloth is swished or a lid put back on the Hellmann’s.

But being a writer is really tough, particularly during the wilderness years before you make it into the mainstream; juggling day-jobs and childcare; earning smidgens of income or no income at all. And later, too, it’s tough; when the reviews come in, or don’t; when your publisher drops you and your books are remaindered. I’m not saying women writers shouldn’t strive for financial, managerial and emotional self-sufficiency. I’m just urging all you tough cookies out there not to be quite so hard on yourselves.

Whether you call it ‘mothering’ or ‘husbanding’, nurturing a writer’s creativity involves more than just doing the school run and paying the phone bill on time. A writer also needs financial and sexual security, empathy, feedback and – last but not least – respect for their work (see 6 essentials inset). And all writers need these things – men and women alike.

The difference is that most male writers have them already, by virtue of the fact that they are living with women. If we deny that we need the same things, we may well find ourselves standing at the swampy end of a very uneven playing field – with bullet-holes in our trainers.

Back in 1999, when Mslexia was launched, we conducted some research into women’s willingness, compared with men, to submit their writing for publication. We discovered that, though twice as many women as men are writing, they are 50 per cent less likely to send off their manuscripts to publishers and agents, or to apply for writing grants.

So what’s holding us back? Not lack of talent, that’s for sure: poetry, fiction and newspaper editors regularly observe that the average standard of manuscripts submitted by women is higher than those submitted by men. I want to suggest that part of the problem can be traced back to the lack of support many women writers receive in their intimate relationships.

‘Male writers don’t seem to have the same problem in putting themselves first or believing in their abilities,’ says Jennifer Bryce, who taught creative writing at City University and who urges women to find ‘writing buddies’ to keep their motivation on the boil. ‘One reason is the support they receive from the women in their lives: mothers, wives, sisters.’

Lack of support can take many forms: from domestic absenteeism to incorrigible infidelity. But there are other, more subtle, ways of undermining someone’s creativity. Scott Fitzgerald flew into a rage when Zelda embarked on a novel set in the same period as his. William James’ withering comments on one of Willa Cather’s manuscripts caused a writer’s block that took years to dissipate. Rose Tremain’s early confidence was blighted by a mocking letter from her father. Selima Hill used to write in secret and hide her poems ‘like an alcoholic’s bottles’.

Successful women authors, understandably, don’t like to complain about their spouses in public. We only discover such things later, when the biographers start digging: the bestselling novelist whose husband refuses to read any of her books; the top poet throttling back on her career to avoid upsetting her less-successful spouse; the respected playwright with writer’s block because her husband is so scathing about her work. These are instances I know of, where prominent women authors have been undermined by their mates. How many more women must there be out there who have yet to break through, who decide that, all things considered, it would be easier to stop writing altogether?

We should not be ashamed to acknowledge the help that we need. Indeed, until we do make a dispassionate assessment of what we lack, we’re unlikely to get it.
Mrs Gaskell complained that ‘everybody comes in to me perpetually’, while ‘Mr Gaskell just trots off to his study’. Her message to women writers was succinct: let the laundry soak overnight, she advised, so you’ll spend less time washing it in the morning. I think we can do better than that.

For those of you not currently in a relationship, we’ve provided four handy profiles to help you surf the world of computer dating and home in on the ideal mate (see 4 blind dates inset). If you’re already spliced, our 6 essentials table will help you assess where your partner scores as a Writer’s Companion – and where s/he is lacking. Whether you opt to negotiate a few changes in your relationship, or start afresh with someone new, our Prenuptial Agreement sets out the ground-rules for living with a writer. (And since you’ve asked, I’m married to a poet who also works full-time as a creative writing lecturer. And it is every bit as exhilarating, challenging and infuriating as you might expect.)

While we’re on the subject of ‘mothering the mind’, it’s worth remembering Winnicott’s concept of ‘good enough’ mothering: the level of nurturing – neither ideal nor abusive – that allows a child to grow into adulthood without crippling neurosis. I think ‘good enough’ is the minimum a woman writer should expect from her relationship: that it should be ‘at least neutral’, as Kate Saunders puts it, in its effect on her creativity. And if it isn’t, if you can’t tick any of the six essential boxes, it may be time to think carefully about how important your writing is to you.

A partner who doesn’t respect your creativity probably doesn’t respect you very much either. Do you really want to live with someone like that? If you don’t, well, to quote the inestimable Paul Simon, there must be 50 ways to leave your lover...

PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT

I acknowledge that unpaid domestic labour, including housework, childcare, general maintenance and family administration, should be shared equally between the adult members of our household.

• I acknowledge that monetary reward is not a fair measure of the value of a person’s work.
• I acknowledge that creative work, including writing, has an intrinsic value regardless of its remuneration.
• I acknowledge that creative work contributes significantly to my partner’s happiness and mental stability, and therefore to the long-term wellbeing of our household.
• I undertake not to undermine my partner’s creative ambitions with belittling remarks, jokes or unsolicited criticism.
• I undertake to negotiate a reasonable division of domestic labour and recreation, which takes account of my partner’s need for significant periods of time to devote to his or her creative work.
• I undertake not to interrupt or disturb my partner’s agreed periods of creative time, nor to allow my work or recreation schedule to interfere with it.
• Where my own work or leisure priorities impinge on my ability to do my fair share of domestic labour, I undertake to organise alternative labour to compensate for my absence, paid for if necessary out of my own income.
  

Signed ......................................................................................................

Witnessed ................................................................................................

Date...........................................................................................................

This feature has been selected from the Mslexia archive. For the latest on the writing world, publishing and creativity subscribe now. To sample more Mslexia features or to find out about the latest issue click here.

From Issue 26 ◊ Jul/Aug/Sep 2005

SIX ESSENTIALS

• TIME: Does your mate share the domestic work? The time this saves you is a valuable gift to your writing.
• MONEY: If your mate is rich, s/he can pay for childcare, housework, admin, and you can give up the day job.
• FIDELITY: You can waste years dreading, coping with, recovering from, a spouse’s affairs. Infidelity is distracting.
• EMPATHY: A writer’s life can be full of woe. Does your mate help you recover from setbacks and rejection?
• LITERACY: Does your mate read widely enough to offer informed and insightful feedback on your writing?
• RESPECT: Is your mate competitive? Does s/he resent your achievements – or break out the champagne?

FOUR BLIND DATES

• CAREERIST
  An ambitious business type scores very badly on time (see 6 essentials, facing page) and is unlikely to hang out the washing or organise the children’s sports gear. But if the money’s good enough, and s/he’s not stingy, you’ll be able to give up work and pay other people to fill the gaps on the domestic front. Beware of infidelity, though – all those business lunches, all those trips away. And there won’t be much time or energy left over for commenting on your manuscript, or drying your tears when your latest rejection comes thudding onto the doormat. Truckloads of champagne, though, for when you do make it.
• ACADEMIC
  This kind of partner scores well on many of the 6 essentials – which may be why so many successful women authors seem to be married to university lecturers or teachers. The hours are flexible and coincide neatly with school terms; and the money’s good. Fidelity may be a worry (sweaty seminars, adoring students), but you may hit the jackpot with respect for your publishing ambitions, and sensible feedback on your efforts. Beware the over-zealous academic who spends every waking hour at the university. Your needs will take second place to those of the students and the academy.
• NINE-TO-FIVER
  This type may not set the world on fire, but can perform very well, thank you, as a Writer’s Companion. The working hours leave time for some input on the domestic front, and enough energy to sooth your writerly angst. Though the money may be on the low side, it’s probably enough for you to go part-time if you economise – and may even buy three mornings of childcare a week and a once-a-week cleaner. Beware of housework phobia and hobbies, though. This partnership will only work if s/he puts in the effort at home as well as at work.
• WRITER
  This may be the worst option: all the disadvantages of the careerist without the emollient of a fat pay check. Your mate’s income is likely to be laughable, so one or both of you will need a day job, which will cut into the time available for domestic work and childcare and could find you squabbling over creative time. Literacy can be a boon (if you have time to read one anothers’ manuscripts), and empathy (you can wallow together in your sloughs of despond). But beware of competitiveness: your success could mark the end of the relationship.

A writer’s companion

‘Don’t think, Elaine, because you can’t.’

That’s what I heard for 23 married years. Now I lie beside a long, cool, quiet sleeper, who doesn’t groan when I pick up paper and pen from the floor. When I sit up, my bent knees make a tent, letting in morning chills, but there is never a complaint as I scribble on rustling paper amplified by the quiet room. Then I lie back down, putting leaden arms onto the heat only his sleeping body can generate.

Sometimes I have to get out of bed to check an idea, a phrase, a moment sealed in the vaults of my laptop. I stand bare-arsed, confident he won’t roll onto my side of the bed.

I scuttle back and, as he folds me into his warmth again, I murmur, ‘Say something nice.’

Thinking for a moment, he says in his unused morning voice: ‘You don’t smell of excrement.’

That keeps me on my toes.

ELAINE RENTON of Falkirk, writing about Jamie Burgess

• PHOTO © SUPERSTOCK