IMAGES and ICONS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I sit down to write this with the full knowledge that a man in a cowboy hat is going to represent my image. Okay I can handle this. I’ve had a long run on my looks. And I have to admit that Leigh looks more like a writer than I do. In fact he looks like Larry McMurtry should look. And besides I do love a man in a hat. But the shifting of images reminds me of my first big interview as a writer.

A reporter called from the newspaper and we talked over the phone like long lost girlfriends. We had one those ‘sisterhood’ conversations. (The women readers of this blog will know what I mean.) When the article appeared there was a photograph of the writer Marilyn French (The Women’s Room) up in the corner of the “book” page. She had on a tweed jacket and was peering over her shoulder in a very aloof professorial way. In fact all she needed was a pipe. In the middle of the page was a large photo of me wearing a tiger-print bathing suit, and bangles on my toes. I was posed on a fake rock on a Universal Pictures sound stage. The headline under this photo read: ONE TIME SEX OBJECT TURNS WRITER The photo was close to twenty years old. The article was no better than the headline. I was furious. I was devastated. I ranted that I wanted to be treated with the same respect as Marilyn French. I yelled that I wanted to look like Marilyn French! When I heard those words come out of my mouth my sense of irony took over. With the restraint of my husband I did not kill the reporter in the name of sisterhood. This allowed me to continue my writing career.

I’m sure there is a moral to this story: Don’t sit on fake rocks in tiger-print bathing suits. But of course if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have the experience that fuels my work. But my image has haunted me and will until the end. You cannot be photographed, filmed, and paid money for it and not look in the mirror and wonder…. one time sex object?

Now to weightier issues such as Rob’s column on dead authors. By the way, I would rather be a dead author than a dead actress. My two published novels, and now the third, exist because of Archie Goodwin and Nero Wolfe. I suppose they fall into the homage category. When I discovered Fer-de-Lance I immediately searched out all the other books. I lived in Archie’s world for weeks. It was like being in love for the first time.

When I sat down to write my first book I was going for the GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL. After a month I had bored myself silly. I had no feeling for what I was doing. I began to wander around the house moaning, “How can I be a writer when I don’t know what to write.” My husband said, “Write about what you love.” “What’s that?” I said. I was still a sex object then. “Mysteries,’ he replied. “You stay up all night reading them. You told me it was too bad there wasn’t a female version of Nero Wolfe. Write it.” Sometimes you need a sledgehammer dropped on your head in order for the light bulb to go on.

Alas, a couple of weeks ago a literary agent I met at a garden party asked, ‘Who’s Archie Goodwin and Nero Wolfe?” She’s obviously never been in love.