Celia Blue Johnson - Odd Type Writers: From Joyce and Dickens to Wharton and Welty, the Obsessive Habits and Quirky Techniques of Great Authors

O DD T YPE
W RITERS

A LSO BY C ELIA B LUE J OHNSON

Dancing with Mrs. Dalloway:
Stories of the Inspiration Behind Great Works of Literature

100 Great Poems for Girls (editor)

100 Poems to Lift Your Spirits (editor with Leslie Pockell)

O DD T YPE
W RITERS

From Joyce and Dickens
to Wharton and Welty,
the Obsessive Habits
and Quirky Techniques
of Great Authors

Celia Blue Johnson

A PERIGEE BOOK

A PERIGEE BOOK

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

Copyright 2013 by Celia Blue Johnson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

PERIGEE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The P design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Johnson, Celia Blue.
Odd type writers : from Joyce and Dickens to Wharton and Welty, the obsessive habits
and quirky techniques of great authors / Celia Blue Johnson.
pages cm
A Perigee book.
Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN: 978-1-101-62398-5

1. AuthorshipMiscellanea. 2. AuthorshipAnecdotes. I. Title.
PN165.J64 2013
80802dc23 2013002340

First edition: June 2013

Text design by Laura K. Corless

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Most Perigee books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, or educational use. Special books, or book excerpts, can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write: Special.Markets@us.penguingroup.com.

F OR I AN

The first time I visited Chumleys, I got lost on the way. It was early evening, and it had been snowing all afternoon. By the time I emerged from the Christopher Street subway stop, the sidewalks were covered in a thick layer of white. Streetlights and neon signs illuminated falling snowflakes. Pedestrians strolled and strode, some slipping on patches of slick ground. I turned onto one of the winding streets that led into the heart of Manhattans West Village, and suddenly the bustle of Seventh Avenue disappeared. It was still and quiet. I could hear my own muffled footsteps as I trudged through the snow.

Unlike much of Manhattan, the streets in the West Village have no apparent order. They form a confusing maze for anyone who, like me, isnt familiar with the area. I accordingly took several wrong turns before finally landing on Bedford Street. Then I must have walked past Chumleys three or four times before I spotted the numbers on the door. The trouble is that the building looked like every other charming brick home in the area. But, then again, that was the point. As a speakeasy during Prohibition, Chumleys was supposed to blend in. Later, when the ban on alcohol was lifted, the owner of the establishment decided to stick with a nondescript faade.

There was no mistaking the longtime literary hub once I walked inside. People crowded in the entryway, waiting for spots to open up. Waiters bobbed and weaved between tables, carrying pints of beer and hearty fare. Lively conversations, cackles, clinking glasses, and upbeat music all blended into a constant roar. Between the body heat and the flames jumping in an open fireplace, the restaurant was nice and toasty. This was a world apart from the cold, sleepy street beyond the front door.

The walls were filled with photographs of writers who had frequented Chumleys over the years. Hundreds of book covers wound through the pub below the portraits. F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, J. D. Salinger, and Edna St. Vincent Millay are just a few of the literary legends who sat at the wooden tables and imbibed. The familiar faces in the black-and-white photos smiled mischievously or stared off into the distance. They appeared to be only briefly frozen in time. It was as though they might, at any moment, chime in on a joke or a serious discussion. Imagine catching a witty retort from James Thurber or Dorothy Parker!

Those people are long gone, but the shadows of their lives dip back to this one place. When my name was called and I slid into a booth, I closed my eyes for a few seconds. Voices ebbed and flowed around me. I imagined that a deep laugh burst from Ernest Hemingway rather than a stranger at the next table. From across the room, I could make out an excited voice, talking too rapidly for me to catch exactly what was said. That, I thought, could have been Jack Kerouac. Of course, theres no way to re-create the banter between the brilliant minds who crowded into Chumleys. And yet, sitting there, it crossed my mind that this is about as close as it gets.

Walking into a legendary writers home has been an altogether different experience for me. There tends to be a hallowed hush within the walls. Important rooms are roped off, understandably to preserve the space. One can peer into an authors study, but not sit in the same spot where she or he wrote. Geographically, its a small difference, standing inside or outside a room. But its significant. From the doorway, I find it difficult to conjure anything more than a one-dimensional picture of a writer sitting at a desk. In Chumleys it felt as though I had been transported to another time. As a literary enthusiast, I seek that immediacy and intimacy. In part, thats why I wrote this book. I wanted to animate those eerily quiet rooms where famous people composed their groundbreaking works.

If youre a bookworm, then its likely youve curled up with a novel by at least one of the authors featured in Odd Type Writers. After opening to page one, hours may have slipped by before you thought to look up. That power to mesmerize has an intangible, almost magical quality, one I wouldnt dare to try and meddle with by attempting to define it. It was never my goal as I wrote this book to discover what made literary geniuses tick. The nuances of any mind are impossible to pinpoint.

In Odd Type Writers, I simply wanted to envision a study as it was when a writer was in it. I wanted to know: typewriter, pencil, or pen? Desk chair, armchair, or couch? Was the furniture selection based on practical or sentimental reasons? Perhaps a cat purred nearby. Maybe a window was propped open so fresh air could wash into the room. I certainly didnt expect to find more than small distinctions that set one writer apart from another. I had no idea that I was about to venture into such strange literary territory.