Hilma Wolitzer (again), a new taxonomy of literature, the risk of feeling

“The premise is, ‘Can reading change your life?’ ” Ms. Wolitzer said.

Hilma Wolitzer with daughter, Meg, in the 1980s

When Hilma Wolitzer spoke to Terry Gross in 1988, she had published five novels for adults, her first, Ending, when she was 44. (Wolitzer, who is very much alive at 94, has spoken more recently to

Oldster Magazine

and

Debbie Weil

and has now written nine novels for adults, another four for young readers, and a nonfiction book on craft. )

“I am really a late bloomer,” Wolitzer said.

“And until then you were, um,” Gross stumbled over her words. As she settled on, “a mother…” Wolitzer’s voice spoke over her, challenging. “Say it,” she commanded. “A housewife.”

GROSS: I hate that word. I just really hate that word.

WOLITZER: I do, too.

GROSS: I mean, I hate homemaker, also. There’s something so, uh, uh…

WOLITZER: Domestic and menial? That’s even worse.

That same year, the New York Times published a profile of Wolitzer and her friend, bestselling author Susan Isaacs, with the headline, “2 Housewives, Sitting Around Writing.” Wolitzer is described as “the more critically acclaimed but less commercially successful writer.”

In the piece, Susan Isaacs observes: “There’s a kind of deep-rooted sexism in the American literary establishment.” Wonder where she got that idea?

In response, one Rosalie Minkow of Port Washington, New York wrote a letter to the editor of the paper:

“Though [Wolitzer] is a Long Islander, she is not a Long Island housewife, no more than you could have said that John Cheever was a Connecticut househusband.”

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Driftless Books & Music

I found Hearts — or Hearts found me — in an impressive book and record warehouse in Wisconsin. I was waiting to pay for Doris Lessing and Katherine Mansfield when Hilma practically leapt into my hands from a shelf.

The novel was one in an unreasonably large stack of books I took with me in October to

Social Studies Residency

, where I spent a week working on my book. It was the longest period of time ever away from my child, and my longest duration of committed, unblinking creative work since 2018.

I went feral. I didn’t brush my teeth, exercise, put on pants. I drank coffee until the afternoon, when suddenly I found myself ravenous. How freeing it was to forsake the care of my body and anyone else’s.