Ah, the truth comes out. It’s so much more fun to read endless books about my time period than to actually write anything. Margot Tennant’s autobio just showed up on my doorstep this afternoon, and of course I’m midstream already.
She should have been a Real Housewife. Or a blogger. Her egotism is insane, but so disarming because she obviously doesn’t see it, and she isn’t particularly mean-spirited. Equal parts charming and ridiculous.
In case you can’t tell, I’m having a great time.
I wish people nowadays were so obsessed with defining one another’s character. I don’t think I’ve ever tried to write a full page analysis of any of my friends or family, but Margot can’t stop ladling out the adjectives. Vera Brittain, come to think, was also obsessed with “personality.” It’s funny but even though we’re much more forthcoming about our diagnoses these days, we’re not at all forthcoming about the intricacies of our personalities. Other people’s, maybe. But not our own. And it looks like such a fun pastime.