When I was a young girl at Runnymede Collegiate in Toronto, I loved “The Great Gatsby, a novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald. My teacher, Ms. Bichan, asked if I had read the biography of the writer’s wife, Zelda Fitzgerald. So, I did.
Zelda Sayre, Southern Belle and wild child extraordinaire. A talented dancer and writer in her teens. She meets Scott Fitzgerald in 1917 when he’s a soldier stationed in Camp Sheridan in her hometown, Montgomery, Alabama. He marries her, takes her to New York City, where she becomes his muse. She also becomes his idea person—later, she writes articles herself, but the byline is her husband’s (his name sells, hers doesn’t according to an agent). *I always thought the unique short story The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button was something Zelda came up with —the idea of a life lived backwards could only be hers.
As the years pass, Zelda becomes increasing bored by the Muse stuff—tired of bringing sandwiches to Scott’s desk, being a socialite and leading a nomadic life. She takes up painting, inspired by the artists she meets while living in France. She takes up Ballet again at 28 years of age, studying with the famous prima ballerina, Lubov Egorova. Eventually she turns down an offer to perform in the Teatro di San Carlo’s production of Aida.
Why? It is told that Scott Fitzgerald didn’t approve of her dancing or her writing, but strangely didn’t mind that she painted. So, a breakdown ensues, an identity theft, a jealous spouse. Many of her ideas, her moments of truth, were used in her husband’s stories and novels, and yet, they were HER moments, her truths.
Bear with me Dear Reader as I do have trouble with threads that meander. Years pass where Zelda is in and out of mental institutions. Zelda, 40 years of age, is finally released, in the care of her mother back in her poky hometown. There, she continues a regiment of walking 5 miles a day to conquer her anxiety, she paints on her mother’s tiny patio while the dove’s coo. F. Scott Fitzgerald dies in California of heart attack.
The death of her husband frees Zelda. In the past, he scolded her saying that her material, her writing was his, she could not use it, because he was the professional writer and she, an Amateur.
“What are you doing living with a third-rate talent then?” she asked.
The Zelda biography ends with Zelda a mere shadow lurking around Montgomery holding a bible—a ghost of herself. In fact, after Fitzgerald’s death, I discovered that Zelda became prolific; she continued to write without being published. Her paintings were shown at the Montgomery Museum of Art. (Others were burned —by the Yardman—Zelda’s mother didn’t like them.) The ones that remain, private collectors won’t give up.
What Zelda understood was that being an Amateur means, “For The Love Of”. I say, “Made With Love.” The best reason to be creative. Her story is not a cautionary tale. Here’s what I’m getting at:
Next time someone chides you for being “crafty” snickering at your having bought enormous amounts of Bristol board and glitter from Dollarama, remember these words from the Wildy intelligent Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald:
“Something may be a sort of fulfilment of yourself, and it may not be great to other people, but it is just as essential to yourself as if it is a great masterpiece.”
