When I was a kid, I used to think Great Writers were also Great People.

I mean, how could anyone with such a complete and tender understanding of the human race be anything other than nice?

Then I read about Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald and O’Neill and revised my opinions downward. Great writers but flawed human beings.  REALLY flawed.  Worst Parent Ever level of flaws.  And Lillian Hellman proved lady writers could be just as bad.

I fell in love with Hunter S. Thompson’s style, nerve and humor.  When I realized his gonzo behavior was a lifestyle instead of an act, I vowed to never go near him unless I was armed with a cattle prod.

By the time I started this blog, I had done a 180 degree pivot from my childhood ideas and now assumed any writer worth admiring was really a rabid wolverine in human clothing.

It took an unusual book to change my mind again.  Meanwhile there are Letters… gives me reason to hope novelists will be allowed to rejoin the human race.

It’s the story of two 20th century storytellers who seemed to be polar opposites.  Eudora Welty was one the Southern Spinsters whose talent was recognized early on.  She may have looked like somebody’s plain, unmarried aunt but her face concealed a sharp-as-a-tack brain and an ear for how people speak.  Her short story, “Why I Live at the P. O.“is a masterpiece of humor, first-person narration, and positive proof that family can make you crazy.  Kenneth Millar, had a Ph.D. in literature but a poorer literary reputation, partly because of the kind of books he wrote: detective stories.  As Ross MacDonald, Mr. Millar created the Lew Archer mystery series and imbued Hammett’s hard-boiled detectives with a subtlety and sensitivity they had been missing.  Unfortunately, most “serious” literary critics dismissed the genre as popular “trash”, unworthy of the serious-minded reader.  That trend was bucked when Millar’s novel, The Underground Man  got a rave review from someone Mr. Millar had never laid eyes on: Eudora Welty.

Welty loved good detective stories and she wasn’t deterred by other peoples’ prejudices.  Mr. Millar wrote to thank her and admire her work.  She wrote back again in a week.  On and on the letters flew, discussing their latest projects, the news (Welty hated shaking President Nixon’s hand, given her fascination with Watergate) but rarely any personal demons.  Millar was staying in an unhappy marriage and coping with the death of his daughter but talking about his own unhappiness would have seemed like self-pity and that was against his code of conduct.  Married men like Millar didn’t run away from bad marriages, they accepted what they had.  And ladies like Miss Welty did not run off with a married man, even if he was a Soul Mate.  Instead, they remained platonic friends and wrote to each other, adding Kenneth’s wife, Margaret, to the conversation whenever they could.  The conversation lasted more than a decade, until Alzheimer’s stole Millar’s brain and personality.  And if Eudora continued without her friend for another twenty years, at least she had the memories and letters of an affection that was real if not totally realized.