F. SCOTT AND THE SILENT BOOMER

F. Scott himself

I see blog readership is down. The holiday weekend? Even I would be bored by the constant drum of "writing steadily, writing steadily, writing steadily" that I'm producing lately on this blog about the novel I call Manning. I think creative writing is harder to sell with a blog than a product like "wedding cakes" or "toilet paper" or the skills of those who want to teach you how to write. I see a comparison between those who used to sell get quick rich schemes and those who are trying to cash in on everybody's secret desire to be poets and writers. Well who can blame them? Only poets aren't the romantic dreamers most people think they are. They just keep writing and writing, and that's all they have to sell...is the product of those long hours of sitting alone over a pine desk that may soon supply material for their coffins. Pity the poor novelist, then, as his ordeal is longer. 

Speaking of novelists, ladies, listen to this bit of fudge from F. Scott Fitzgerald in my favorite novel of his, Tender Is The Night. Dr. Richard Diver is touring WWI trenches with friends and a 17 year old who is enamored of him. Dick waxes philosophical through much of this scene, then he observes, 

"...Rosemary burst into tears. Like most women she liked to be told how she should feel, and she liked Dick's telling her which things were ludicrous and which things were sad."

Don't get mad, my friends. Perhaps this is only a situation that a very young girl can put herself into while following after a famous older psychiatrist, but Diver does say "women"? Too much Zelda, do you think?