It’s Hard Out There For a Writer, while Danielle Smith and Anna March Marches On
Let’s get honest: the writer’s life has never been easy. F. Scott Fitzgerald was considered a failure when he died in 1940 before Great Gatsby became required reading in high schools and colleges. Carolyn Chute lived without outdoor plumbing so she had to write her first novel during the day when there was light. God knows people know about JK Rowling, nursing a coffee while writing the first Harry Potter book on welfare, feeling like a failure.
I grew up in the eighties when Jackie Collins, Danielle Steel, and Judith Krantz were popular. They gave interviews on Mike Douglas and Merv Griffin how hard they worked, how they now had millions of dollars because of miniseries deals and (implied) hard work. What I didn’t know back then was Krantz was married to a movie producer. Steel came from old money, plus married well. Jackie Collins had a movie star sister and knew the right people. I’m not knocking the women; they worked hard for what they achieved. Yet for years I put a yardstick on my so-called success against theirs and others. I think that really hurt me. But I wanted to be a writer so badly, I also wanted to achieve some type of financial independence. I wanted to get Guess? jeans and not fret they were one hundred and twenty-five dollars. I wanted to always have milk in the fridge, pizza Friday and Saturday nights.
So I believe this is why the stories about writer Anna March and Danielle Smith struck a nerve. If you haven’t heard of them, congratulations! You saved yourself much heartache! However, let’s review.
“Anna March” made a splash at the LA literary scene, throwing herself a party. She knew everyone and everyone knew her. She wrote an essay for Modern Love about her then partner who is in a wheelchair. Think Me Without You without the euthanasia. As Karrie Higgins points out in her wonderful essay, she wants to be the center of the story. I Love My Poor Boyfriend in a Wheelchair! I’m a saint! Love me! But “Anna March” wasn’t her real name (hence the quotations) It turns out as “Delaney Anderson” she bankrupted a local writing center in San Diego, as “Nancy Kruse” she shortchanged public radio stations, but then as “Anna March” she created more drama and sadness. All of this was written in a throughly researched and bittersweet article written by Melissa Chadburn and Carolyn Kellogg.
“Anna March” held shiny objects to the people she conned. Look! Hey, wasn’t your 401k wiped out in 2008? It’s okay, I’ll help you rebuild. Come teach at this seminar. Come write for my ezine. Look how successful I am. I had something published in the Fancy Smancy New York Times. Come write with me at Julia Child’s house. I’ll make your dreams come true. Instead, she hurt people, one by one. When I said something on Facebook about the whole mess, four writers messaged me saying they were taken in by her. I told them what I will say here; contact Melissa Chadburn at the LA Times and tell her your story. Better yet, tell it yourself, be it a blog or Medium.
I was Facebook friends with March; I admired an essay she wrote for Salon about a cold case (I won’t link it; just google) of course, now everything is doubtful. Was her interest in the cold case genuine? Or fake, like everything else in her life?
Then we have Danielle Smith, who was a “literary agent” who took on clients, tell them their work was amazing, the best thing since sliced bread. Dreamworks was looking at their work! Many publishers were looking at their work! However, she never sent any of her clients’ work out to editors or publishers. She gaslighted her clients as they waited, waited and waited for something big to happen. Smith has closed her agency down, leaving clients hurt and wondering what happened. Since I’m working on a book proposal right now to submit to agents, this doesn’t make me want to send it out. It makes me want to make peanut butter fudge, get into bed, then overeat and read the new Anne Tyler novel.
Then just when it can’t get worse, it does! Anna March’s name appeared on a panel for the AWP (the Association of Writers and Writing Programs) a big la-di-da deal that happens annually. It felt like salt to the wound, especially to people whose panels were rejected.She has been replaced, but the damage had been done. Some panels will be: Dear Lit Mag Editors: Now What? How to Overcome Discouragement and Use It as a Motivating Tool. I wish there were panels that would be handy for myself, like “How Coinstar Can Be Your Friend” “How to Be Polite When a Career Counselor Calls Your Writing a Hobby” or “Need a MacBook? How to Use QVC and Take Advantage of Their Easy Pay Plan.”
So many writers are feeling insecure and odd, wondering if they are even writers. Shouldn’t writers be making more money? Shouldn’t we be teaching at some fancy ivy league college, with patches on our elbows and smoking a pipe? Shouldn’t we be at AWP talking about fancy things like unreliable characters and fancy literary magazines? Shouldn’t we be going to fancy retreats where we find picnic baskets on our doorstep while we write? Maybe we aren’t writers. Maybe we should just quit.
Senor Love Daddy, help me here:
So here’s the deal, and it’s coming from a woman who is hoping by luck that she’ll get a movie or miniseries deal to pay off her student loans: Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re not a writer. I just finished We Were Witches by Ariel Gore. In her teens raising a baby, she told a poet Mary TallMountain that she wanted to be a writer. Mary was incredibly kind to Ariel and told her she was a writer, they were talking about writing right there at the kitchen table, and that’s what writers do. We talk about writing, we think about writing when we aren’t writing.
We are writers. We may not be on AWP panels, we might not teach at ivy league schools. We may not have the number one book, we may not get Oprah calling us to be on Super Soul Sunday, We are writers. Agents, editors, and whoever is out there, we want respect. We want kindness. We want to make a living. We tell good stories. Honor our stories. Instead of putting us down, lift us up.
In any job, there are cruddy people. Sad but true. But if we let the cruddy people win, then the world will be poorer without our art. And then they win. Don’t let them win. Keep going. Keep writing. You’re are enough. Trust me on this.
And that’s the double truth, Ruth.
Jennifer Kathleen Gibbons has been published in Salon, Stereo Embers, and The Billfold. She has also written about the cold case about Suzanne Bombardier, which was solved in December 2017. She is writing a memoir about her involvement with the case, along with a collection of essays. Both are seeking agent representation.
