Remember the name ... Elinor Lipman's Then She Found Me with Bette Midler and Helen Hunt
After 18 years, nine novels and one volume of short stories, it looks like American author Elinor Lipman might be about to get the recognition she deserves at last. Her new book Dear Henry will be released in the UK in July, just six days after an adaptation of her first book, Then She Found Me, hits the big screen. I'm looking forward to seeing it. But I'm more excited to think that Elinor Lipman may soon become a big name in the book world. She deserves to be.
Although Lipman is moderately well-known in the US, a sought-after lecturer and award-winner, she is still not a household name and she is hardly known at all in the UK. This may be due to her unassuming demeanor: as an artist and a person, she comes across as tasteful and restrained. Born into what she calls "an exceedingly functional family" in 1950s Massachusetts, brash self-promotion clearly isn't Lipman's style - something that can count against an author in the scandal-obsessed, tell-all noughties.
More seriously though, I think there is a lack of respect for authors whose particular talent is to weave stories of real human emotion with witty social satire. Like Austen (clearly an influence on her work), Lipman slyly pokes fun at our society's obsessions, fears and prejudices. Her books often deal with emotions and situations we find uncomfortable, from death (The Dear Departed) to loneliness (The Pursuit of Alice Thrift). Lipman's ability to deftly dissect the social mores of the day is often under-appreciated.
I suspect this is why Lipman has failed to acquire the same respect as some of her peers, such as Jane Smiley, Anne Tyler and Meg Wolitzer, who all write much more downbeat books. As I've written before, when authors use humour to deflect serious issues, they are often discounted as having nothing serious or useful to say.
What's more, I suspect there is still a trace (or a giant stain) of sexism in the world of literary reviewing. It's not a new observation, but it bears repeating: the types of books women tend to enjoy are too often denigrated, as if writing about love or relationships were less important or relevant than writing about sex and war. The author Megan Crane recently wrote about the different ways male and female authors are treated by the media: "Write about young men and their worlds and you will be feted and congratulated and called a "wunderkind," and no one will call what you write anything but literary," she said.
Which brings us to the other reason Lipman's books may sometimes be dismissed: she often writes about women in their forties and fifties. She bucks the trend for books about glamorous young women and refuses to create ageing women who are anything less than multi-faceted. For some reason people seem to find this hard to take.
I can only hope that before long scholars will start to understand that Tom Perotta is not more worthy of praise than Jennifer Weiner, and that many of us find Philip Roth far less enjoyable than Elinor Lipman. Anyone who can engage readers the way she does deserves to be applauded, not ignored.
Over the last few years, I've read all of Elinor Lipman's novels, and the one I recommend most often is The Inn at Lake Devine. It contains loss and grief, humour and love - plus a subtle investigation into the motives behind anti-semitism. I re-read it regularly. And maybe in the end, that's all any author needs. It's all very well winning awards and having your books made into films, but knowing that you have created a piece of work that your readers love must mean so much more.
