Self, Published

In response to my post about our girl Candice Bergen, frequent reader/commenter Christopher mentioned Bergen's autobiography/memoir "Knock Wood".  I've also read it, and I want to go into that a little bit - but I would be remiss if I did not share that Christopher writes his own blog:

Freethinkers Anonymous 

Actually, he may be on sabbatical, or possibly decided that he'd been writing it long enough and he's done.  His most recent post had a vague tone that keeps me wondering.  Anyway.

I read "Knock Wood" in High School - as I said, I was infatuated with Candice from her work in Murphy Brown, and I wanted to know more.  I already knew that she was the daughter of Edgar Bergen, and "sibling" to Bergen's ventriloquist dummy, Charlie McCarthy.  Which, when you think of it, is a really sensible name for a dummy.  It was a different era.  Of course, he also voiced one named Mortimer Snerd, so what do I know?

Anyway, it was a good read, as I recall - but it's been awhile.  One of the things I remember clearly is story in which Candice's mother Frances receives an letter, an invitation of some kind addressed to Frances Bergen, and she is overjoyed.  She explains that she has spent her life either being Edgar's wife, or Candice's mother - and it was nice to be recognized as her own self.  I get that.  I also get that Candice felt like she lived in the shadows of her dummies.

During that time, I read a lot of bios of strong women.  I read Ethel Merman's memoirs - in which she devotes a single blank page to the chapter discussing her brief marriage to Ernest Borgnine.  I read Gilda Radner's memoirs - she died shortly after they were published, or maybe the publication coincided with her death.  I don't recall.

I've also read Amy Poehler's memoirs, along with Tina Fey, Sarah Silverman, Julia Sweeney, and Rachel Dratch.  Mindy Kaling's first memoir was a lot of fun.  What you start to learn about these women knew what they wanted and went after it.  I think that's probably the salient point here.  And, you know they had talent, which helped.

In elementary and middle school, I hated being forced to read a biography because they were mostly about boring ass while men.  If it was a person of color, it was inevitably tied to slavery or civil rights.  And again, more men than women.  

We had to do a report and dress as a classic author in 3rd Grade.  I chose James Fennimore Cooper because there weren't any women left on the list.  Fucking James Fennimore Cooper.  Aside from the fact that he wrote "The Last of the Mohicans", I can only recall he got expelled or nearly expelled from school for playing some sort of prank (pardon me while I hit up Wikipedia).

Ah, yes.  Now, as a kid, the encyclopedia did not include the nature of the prank.  He was admitted to Yale at age 13.  He first locked a donkey in a recitation room.  A later prank involved him blowing up the door of a classmate's room.  So in his 3rd year at Yale, he was expelled.  Thanks Wikipedia.

I was a bad, bad boy.

Had that information been available to 8 year old Allison, she would have been far more interested in James Fennimore Cooper.  The evil that men do lives after.  The good is often interred with their bones.

That's Shakespeare.  Another white dude.

In middle school, I had to pick a biography and chose Mary Shelley, wife of Percy Bysshe Shelley.  She also, coincidentally, wrote Frankenstein.  I remember really half-assing it and skimming the book, only to learn that my English teacher was a huge fan of the Shelleys and had studied them extensively in school.  Fan-freaking-tastic.  I managed, somehow.

The thing is, when I stumble into certain genres, I appreciate it more than if I'm prescribed a certain book or type of book.

I have stumbled onto so many good books because someone I like read it and liked it, or I like the cover, or the title, or whatever the dumb luck of the day was.

For example, the other day, we were getting ready for work, and there was a movie on - Fred Astaire and Leslie Caron.  Daddy Long Legs.  It's based on a book by Jean Webster.  I have read it.  But I couldn't remember the author's surname and had to look it up.  Whereupon I learned that she wrote a follow-up to "Daddy Long Legs" called "Dear Enemy".  I downloaded and read it.  It has a real Anne of Green Gables feel to it, and the plot telegraphs its outcome within the first two chapters.  Regardless, it was a fun little read.  And I would have not thought to look had I remembered Webster was her last name, and here's the thing - the book is way better than the movie.  By leaps and bounds.  But isn't that always the way?

I also dipped my toe into sci-fi, courtesy of Ready, Player One and The Martian.  Both were excellent.  Ready, Player Two? Less excellent.  But do what you have to do.  

I read We Were Liars because my friend who was in publishing recommended it, and said read it early before people reveal spoilers.  So I did.  It's YA, but still good.  Another book about the same family followed, and a third releases next month.

All of this to say, I need to start doing more leisure reading.

ae