I've been reliving my trip to England and Italy to follow in Woolson's footsteps almost exactly 3 years ago. It was late October, early November, and the weather was cold and rainy pretty much nonstop. I had to buy extra layers to stay warm, but I was still freezing and wet most of the time. When I arrived in Florence, I discovered the…
I'm revisiting my trip of three years ago (almost exactly) to the sites in England and Italy where Woolson lived. You can see my first two posts about England here and here. I've been back to England again since, but Italy still haunts me. My first stop was Venice, the city that Woolson thought of as her Xanadu. Once I saw it in person, I…
The back cover copy for Miss Grief and Other Stories is here: Discover the fiction of a writer once deemed America’s “Novelist Laureate.” Constance Fenimore Woolson (1840-94) was considered one of the best writers of her generation. She depicted with precise realism and great empathy a broad landscape of Americans and their ways, from the people of the rural Midwest and deep South…
I'm in that in-between time that reminds me of the days and weeks I spent waiting to hear back from agents and then editors. Now, I'm waiting to hear from readers. A select number of galleys have gone out to respected scholars and writers in hopes of getting an eye-catching blurb. Those are starting to come in--five so far, from writers like Elaine…
I'm working on the copyedits of the manuscript now and am almost done. This is the time for scrutinizing every comma and hyphen. Here and there I add a phrase for clarity or delete a sentence that seems repetitive. But mostly it's making sure each name is spelled correctly. Today, however, I rediscovered for a moment the joy of research, when you are…
The manuscript is done—it just needs copy editing and proofing, and then it will be a book. But it seems there is one more major hurdle I hadn't counted on. After spending the last five years writing this book, everything now hangs upon getting permission to quote from the letters of the figures I’m writing about. Chief among them are, of course, Constance…
Last weekend in Washington, D.C., 22 Woolson scholars—or Woolites (as we call ourselves)—gathered to share their research and celebrate the Woolson Society’s twentieth anniversary. Twenty-two participants may not sound like much, but their energy and enthusiasm far exceed their numbers. As the conference organizer, I had my share of worries, but they faded in the midst of so much conviviality and strong scholarship.…
Day one of the final revisions is here. Finally, a whole day without grading, prepping for classes, or writing letters of recommendations has materialized. I have cleared my desk, leaving only my computer, a lamp, a glass of water, a framed portrait of Woolson, and the manuscript with my editor’s comments. (I’m ignoring the stacks of papers and piles of books crowding my…
No one introduced me to Woolson. I didn’t discover her writings in a class in college or in graduate school. I didn’t stumble upon an essay about her or find her buried in a footnote somewhere. My first encounter with her was altogether different. You could call it a fluke or maybe fate. I was a graduate student with a burning desire to know…