The invitation was proffered by the editor of this volume. Would I (Gina asked) like to look into the "journalism" of Fay Weldon? My answer mirrored the question: Would I. As in
Would I!
First, as Gina knew, I was a big fan of journalism generally: a card-carrying member of the Fifth Estate, disciple of Mencken and Murrow, firm believer that Tom Wolfe's and Joan Didion's best stuff was done long ago, back when they were
journalists
. As Gina knew, I'd stay up till two to catch a rerun of
All the President's Men
or, even better,
The Front Page
or
His Girl Friday
.
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And second, as I may or may not have told Gina previously, I was a big fan of Weldon. I'd read
Puffball, Praxis, Joanna May, Life and Loves of
... and the short stories in
Moon over Minneapolis
(a fine collection; go find it). I found Weldon's fiction witty, incisive, entertaining, and down right significanty'know,
important
to boot.
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What I hadn't known was that Weldon was a journalist. I knew she had written on Jane Austen and Rebecca West, but I surmised this was literary criticism, not journalism. I thought the same about that volume entitled
Post-Rushdie, Pre-Utopia
. You see, I figured Weldon for one of those relatively late-blooming British fiction writers who create a large and impressive oeuvre between age forty and the grave. The English seem to have a better idea about this nurturing of novelists than we Yanks do. There's a dearth of
wunderkinder
over there as most writers are out learning their chops before displaying them to the masses. Then, by the time these scribblers start trotting out public prose, they are pretty fine scribblers indeed, and trot out prose of high quality. Thus do the Brits embark upon distinguished careers in writing. Pym did it this way. Stevie Smith, the poet. Weldon.
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