A reflection on Jacqueline Susann
Critics say you were an awful writer,
the queen of potboilers
with your specious Valley of the Dolls,
but there is a backstory.
A failed actress with a stormy marriage,
an institutionalized son, breast cancer—
three times became NY Times number one,
sold the most books in publishing history,
birthed a movie of immense success.
After cancer discovered,
bargained with God to bestow
another decade and you believe
He granted you twelve years
to do what you promised before you died
from that dreadful disease at 56.
To you literary snobs,
as you assess the great works of art—
Novels; Dostoevsky, Dickens, Woolfe,
Music: Bach, Beethoven, Clara Shumann,
Art: Rembrandt, Goya, O’Keefe,
Poetry: Ovid, Shelly, Byron, Eliot—
a list as long as the imagination.
Who was the real Jacqueline?
A female writer who signed every copy
sold at every bookstore
in cities across the nation.
Wrote the name and address down
of every fan and sent them a personal thanks.
Even bought pastries to sweeten the lives
of all the unsung people behind the scenes
who labored to send those books into the world.
Jacqueline, your tragic characters
popped those uppers and downers,
the Dolls of your book
before they went
to the bottom of the Valley.
You were the real doll,
a sensitive woman
who cared about others.
Style be damned.
Oh, Susann--I cry for you.
Originally published in Off Course Magazine