How About Curling Up with a Good Story? One Writer’s Opinion
Last evening, romance novelist Barbara Cartland visited for dinner. Regretfully, she found no comfort here and I could not rearrange my decor or alter my menu to please her.
We began with cocktails in the parlor where lively conversations with Alice Hoffman and Neil Gaiman have entertained and enthralled me. Barbara was appalled Andy Weir and Chuck Palahniuk were staying for the weekend, and she complained the humor was perverse. I offered for us retire to the conservatory where Neil Simon and Shakespeare offer their best plays, but Barbara tastefully suggested her attire, a body-hugging sequined dress, plumed hat, and pink feather boa, would be considered overdressed and thoroughly inappropriate.
With a roll of my eyes, I attempted to provide Barbara fresh air and a view of the gardens from the balcony. There, George R R Martin and Philip K. Dickwere working on an alien language with Frank Herbert and Brandon Sanderson. Douglas Adams quipped the Vogons had arrived on earth and would not permit Barbara or her yapping dog onto the balcony.
Frustrated, I scrambled to find a way to help my guest feel welcome. Barbara did not ask to tour the house and I was relieved. I have shown Stephen Kingthe attic where Poe sits at the window chatting with Lovecraft, while Tolkienstruggles at a desk trying to fix the Silmarillion and Ursula Le Guin tries to convince him that character is as important as plot. King preferred the dank and darker basement where he spent an hour chatting with Anne Rice and Shirley Jackson. The dampness would have passed through Barbara’s boa — and even her fox stole would not have warmed her in either location.
To my relief, Barbara did not want to visit the nursery, as assuredly Dr. Seuss, JK Rowling, CS Lewis and Roald Dahl would have found her presence disquieting. And I am sure we would have gotten embroiled in a clever and humorous, but uncomfortable, dialogue with Shel. I also worried if she were enticed through a wardrobe or led into a glass elevator, I would be left with no plausible explanation for her disappearance for an investigating police officer.
Dinner was a disappointment. The scallops were perfectly caramelized, and the risotto was creamy. But after years of fine, and often contentious and always energizing, conversation with Mark Twain, Langston Hughes and Ayn Rand, Barbara had nothing to discuss and spent most of the meal asking me if the red of my curls was dyed or DNA. She also kept comparing my thighs to sweet cream, no matter my insistence the metaphor was illogical.
Noticing Barbara’s proclivities, I suggested a pleasant after-dinner stroll in the gardens with Jane Austen, Emerson, and the autumn breeze. But after only a moment with Walt Whitman, during which I was mesmorized, Barbara complained of allergies and we retired to the study.
There, reclining in tufted leather chairs, Papa Hemingway, Joseph Heller, and Kurt Vonnegut have shared intimate moments with me. When I informed Barbara of the practice, she seemed titilated. Yet, when I argued the rule of law and freedom are a paradox, Barbara seemed dejected, gulped her espresso and asked to lie down.
I thought she could rest in my bedroom with Emily Bronte and T. S. Eliot, but neither would acknowledge her presence. As soon as she seemed to settle onto the quilt, Virginia Woolf and Denise Levertov accused Barbara of not appreciating the essence of passion. Voices raised and I had to ask Barbara to leave.
I have rarely asked anyone to leave (and have not had the poor taste to invite E. L. James into my home), but Barbara was not invigorating company.
However, reader, I am glad you have come for a visit. On this wonderful morning, with the breeze swirling the curtains, please, come into the kitchen so you can sample what I’ve cooked up just for you.
Previously published on my website. Copyright 1992, 2019. You may not agree with my evaluation of Ms. Cartland and the portion of a genre she represents, but you are free to have your opinion just as I will have mine.
