I wrote a bio for one of my guilds/ union/ association/whatever, that began with the statement that no one has ever asked me for a bow tie or a hank of hair, something like that., because I am so little known that no one has ever wanted to get off on having something that once belonged to me. But now, someone has requested something for a fund-raiser: a pair of used shoes. This is assuming I have any to spare. I gave away my high-heeled shoes several years ago. I wear flip-flops to the pool; I wear moccasins around the apartment so as not to make a noise over lower-floor neighbours; my summer sandals are getting ratty, but I'll wear them till I get new ones on sale next July; my imitation Nikes are still good and I wear them almost every day for walking; I have Dr. Scholl's dancing slippers for dress-up indoors and a pair of skimmers for elsewhere. So you see I can't spare any shoes.

Why is it that when (if) people know who you are, they think you are rich? Even rich writers can't give away that much. Pierre Berton always tied his own beautiful bow ties. When people asked him for a bow tie, he gave them a clip-on one he bought (by the dozen) at a Dollar Store. (Woolworth's in those days) Most often, writers are asked for a signed copy of their latest book. That's expensive, too. People think you get unlimited copies of your book because after all, you wrote it. Well, I'm lucky to get 10 or 12 free copies for family and friends. I will admit that I can usually get a discount (about 10% of the retail price), but with the price of books these days, I"m still out of pocket and my pockets aren't that deep.

On the whole, it's better to be unknown, unsung, and ignored. I guess that's a perk.

You probably think an unexplained phenomenon is a sinister event but it can be benign, welcome and surprising, that is, serendipitous. Most writers silently bless Horace Walpole and his Prince of Serendip for giving us a word for happy accidents. A few examples from my own career will elicit similar memories in other writers.

Several years ago I had a fellowship with the Mary Bunting Institute at Radcliffe, to research and write a play about Alice James. I was ready to begin my fist draft on American Thanksgiving Day when everything stopped for gratitude and turkey. I worked in my silent office until I felt an urgent need to consult Lewis Carroll’s books about Alice, a need easily satisfied on any day but that. I was far away from my home library; the public libraries were closed; the bookstores were closed; no one was home, including my landlady. I entered my digs early, despairing of finding what I needed. When lo! There on the kitchen table was a boxed set: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Serendipity!

Why? When asked later, my landlady had no memory of putting it there.

The second incident also took place in Cambridge, MA. After finishing my fellowship, I went back to the Schlesinger Library (arguably the best repository of women’s studies in North America). I planned to begin research on a book about women’s diaries (subsequently published by Key Porter Books as Reading Between the Lines) by looking for essential reading material and wondering where to begin. When lo! There on a table in the main reading room was a huge bibliography of women’s diaries, left out by a careless student. Serendipity for sure.

Perhaps this phenomenon is guided by a force field in the writer’s mind, but how is it that one is receptive at that particular time in that particular place for a particular reason?

Serendipity, an unexplained phenomenon