| Diane Middlebrook, Writer |
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| Written by Jim Walsh | |
| Monday, December 17, 2007 at 09:35 AM | |
 Diane Middlebrook with husband Carl Djerassi. Photo by Gabriele Seethaler 2006 She was in her mid-60s, and she looked amazing descending the escalator at MSP International Airport that evening. As we waited for her luggage, I asked if she was game for dinner and a date to First Avenue to hear Lucinda Williams, whom I described as “sort of our Sylvia.” She accepted, to my surprise and delight. On the way to the hotel I played her a song about Sylvia Plath a friend of mine had just recorded and released, and the author signed a book for him, thanking him for keeping “her” spirit alive. I loved the intimacy of the use of the word “her,” as if she and the songwriter alone recognized what Plath was up against: the fragility of the artist’s way. I drove her to her hotel in downtown Minneapolis, waited for her to freshen up, and then I took her to Murray’s Steak House for a long hot meal. We went to First Avenue and stood up front for Lucinda. I introduced her to some folks, she loved the show, and when she got tired she gave me the sign and I walked her back to her hotel. The next day I had the honor of introducing her at a reading at the University of St. Thomas. After she’d signed all her books, I took her to the St. Croix Broiler for pie and decaf coffee. It was cozy and leisurely, and we talked a long time about writing, the need for muses and deep souls to inspire us, discipline, individualism, madness, Plath, Hughes, and the mystical connection to words. “Give us a kiss,” she said, and I did, on the cheek. We said goodnight and goodbye, both of us excited at her next adventure – she had a teaching prospect at the University Of Minnesota.  Photo by Jerry Bauer 2003 It sucks because I’m afraid that people like her -- people who love words and stories and books and who are not afraid to share that love – are rare. I cherished her. She offered to read anything I wrote, and when I sent her the manuscript of my first book this year, she wrote a blurb for it from her sickbed. Her work is incredible, highlighted by her Anne Sexton biography , and there’s more to come – her planned biography of the love god and poet Ovid is scheduled to be published next year. Her obit in the San Francisco Chronicle called her a poet, biographer, and feminist (her website called her “a professional writer,” which I loved for its humor and brazenness), but from what I saw she was the very definition of an artist, in that she was tenacious in her desire to know how art happened, why it happened, how it connected, and, more than anything, who made it. I am not as wise as my old professor; all I know is that some questions have no answers, but as my artist friend Jeaneen Gauthier and I sat in the back of the 7th St. Entry early Sunday morning, I got one. I was telling Jeaneen about this great woman who had passed away, and as I did, Shannon Selberg of the Heroine Sheiks ranted on in a way that would have piqued the interest of the ever-curious and ageless Middlebrook.  Diane Middlebrook with husband Carl Djerassi. Photo by Gabriele Seethaler 2006 I thought I’d heard him wrong, that it was something else, the death rattle of Husker Du’s “Diane” or something. “Did he just say `Diane,?’ I asked Jeaneen. “Yes,” said Jeaneen, not surprised. " “Diane!,” screamed Selberg, and then he screamed it again. Diane Middlebrook's official site Diane Middlebrook on Wikipedia |
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| Last Updated: Monday, December 17, 2007 at 10:34 AM |
