What’s in a Name?

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Since I’ve been thinking of 2025 as the year of Jane Grant, I’ve been finding reminders of her in unexpected places.

Including episode 6, “Meet Michael Vanderkellen,” which originally aired on November 13, 1989 in the eighth and final season of the 1980s sitcom Newhart.*

The episode centers on newlyweds Michael Harris (Peter Scolari) and his wife Stephanie Vanderkellen (Julia Duffy) who are expecting their first child. Michael is unemployed. Stephanie, heiress to a huge fortune but, unable to independently access any of those funds, has been working as a maid at Dick (Bob Newhart) and Joanna (Mary Frann) Loudon’s Stratford Inn in Vermont. Now her room at the inn is not big enough for her growing family.

So Stephanie asks her mother to buy them a mansion in town. Mrs. Vanderkellen (Priscilla Morrill) agrees, but only if Michael changes his last name to Vanderkellen. Because Stephanie is an only child—and a woman—the elder Vanderkellens want insurance that their family name will go on.

Michael, the epitome of a materialistic Yuppie, asks for clarification. “You want me to sell my name, my legacy, my very being, for a house?” Then he immediately agrees.

No one suggests that Stephanie simply continue using her birth name and have the child use it, too.

Instead, Dick points out to Michael, “You sold your soul for a lot of closet space. Don’t you get it? When you give away your name, you’re giving away your identity, your integrity.”

Joanna interjects.

“Of course not,” he replies.

“Why is that?”

[You all know what’s coming.]

“You’re a woman.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re not a man.”

“So?”

“So it’s different.”

“What do you mean, it’s different?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Dick, I know what different means.”

“Good. I’m glad we cleared that up.”

Nothing is in fact cleared up. Dick is perfectly happy with the logic of his explanation, Joanna doesn’t buy it, and Stephanie simply doesn’t care.

Jane Grant faced the same range of responses more than sixty years earlier when she decided that marriage should not require her to give away her identity.

She married Harold Ross in New York City in March of 1920, not long after they both returned from France, where she had worked for the YMCA and he had been serving in the U.S. army. It was a quick, no-frills wedding at the Church of the Transfiguration. After the ceremony, the church secretary startled Jane with, “Congratulations, Mrs. Ross.”

“Never for a moment had I considered the possibility of losing my name,” Jane later wrote. The secretary’s comment “jolted me into the realization that my very own name might have been dissolved when the minister finished the ceremony.” She decided to remain Jane Grant.

In terms of legalities, this was not a simple thing to do, so in 1921, Jane and her friend Ruth Hale launched the Lucy Stone League, an organization that helped married women retain their birth names. (The State Department, for instance, would not allow a married woman to use her birth name on her passport.) The league’s goal attracted the attention of the National Woman’s Party, led by the charismatic suffragist Alice Paul, who would soon begin the long battle to secure the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment.

The two organizations joined forces on some projects, and many women belonged to both groups. The Lucy Stone League attracted much media attention, and soon any married woman who was known by her birth name was described as a Lucy Stoner.

The league operated as an official organization through the mid-1920s. Jane Grant revived it in 1950, along with Doris Fleischman, expanding its purpose to include pursuing “all civil and social rights of women” and serving as a center for research and information about the status of women. As such, the Lucy Stone League became a foundation for the so-called second wave of feminism that surfaced in the 1960s.

Yet in terms of the league’s original goal, appeals to equal rights proved no match for tradition. Over the next decades, only a small percentage of married women opted to retain their birth names. The 1989 airing date of that Newhart episode marked a kind of high point in a slight uptick of women doing so.

In “Making a Name: Women’s Surnames at Marriage and Beyond,” published in the spring 2004 issue of the Journal of Economic Perspectives, Claudia Goldin and Maria Shim speculated that by the 1990s, “Perhaps surname-keeping seems less salient as a way of publicly supporting equality for women than it did in the late 1970s and 1980s. Perhaps a general drift to more conservative social values has made surname-keeping less attractive.”

Nearly twenty years later, a 2023 study by the Pew Research Center found, “Most women in opposite-sex marriages (79%) say they took their spouse’s last name when they got married. Another 14% kept their last name, and 5% hyphenated both their name and their spouse’s name.”

“Women’s rights” has always been capacious. Jane Grant’s interest began with a small slice that quickly allowed her to see larger connections. Her commitment to gender equality issues likely played a big part in her divorce from Harold Ross. It also likely enriched and strengthened her relationship with William Harris, her second husband. Jane remained Jane Grant after their marriage, too. She never wavered.

* During season 8, Newhart spun out of control as it headed for its now famous finale.

[**spoiler alert**]

The whole thing—all eight seasons—had been the dream of Chicago psychologist Bob Hartley, the main character of Bob Newhart’s eponymous (and much better) 1970s sitcom.

2025: The Year of Jane Grant

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Here on the blog, I have designated 2025 as the year of Jane Grant, mostly because it marks the centennial of The New Yorker, the magazine Jane co-founded with her first husband, Harold Ross.

(Jane Grant, c. 1917. Jane Grant Photograph Collection, PH141, University of Oregon Libraries Special Collections)

Also, because for more than a year, I have been engrossed with writing the (very) rough draft of a book about her. I hope this is the year I finish the draft and start reworking it into a less messy version, with a clearer shape, sharper writing, and more vivid story arcs.

My Jane Grant book is not a cradle-to-grave biography. It focuses instead on how Jane got The New Yorker off the ground in 1925 and kept it going. To accomplish this, I explore her journalism career in New York City in the 1910s and 1920s, plus her marriage and subsequent divorce from Harold Ross. All bolstered by an unwavering dedication to the pursuit of gender equality.

Other books have told The New Yorker’s story, but they have been, predictably, male centered. Jane Grant’s presence is sidelined in them, her role largely subsumed under that of “wife.”

As Amy Reading points out in The World She Edited, her marvelous 2024 biography of the magazine’s long-time fiction editor Katharine White:

“But there’s another way to tell the magazine’s origin story: by traveling along the networks forged by the women who were there from the beginning and who have been barely mentioned in histories of the magazine.” Reading’s book traces how White’s tenure at The New Yorker (like Jane Grant’s involvement, as I will demonstrate) “shows quite simply that so many of The New Yorker’s early successes were due to the efforts of feminist women who interpreted the magazine’s obsession with sophistication in a way guaranteed to appeal to readers like themselves—educated, active participants in the city’s cultural life.”

Reading’s book has proved a good resource for my project. It is also an inspirational model of writing, as is Debby Applegate’s biography Madam, about Polly Adler. I anticipate that Laurie Gwen Shapiro’s forthcoming book, The Aviator and the Showman, about Amelia Earhart, will form the third point of that inspirational model triangle.

I will be touching on these books (and others) plus exploring fascinating primary sources as I write my way through 2025 and the year of Jane Grant. Some of the more interesting findings will appear on the blog during the year, most likely at irregular intervals (Writing history is challenging, and, for me, writing about writing history is even more so.) Hope you will follow along.

On Reading (and not yet finishing) Madam: The Biography of Polly Adler, Icon of the Jazz Age By Debby Applegate

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Back in the summer of 2024, I started reading Debby Applegate’s biography of Polly Adler, the (in)famous Manhattan madam of the 1920s. It was an obvious choice for me: a story about a little-known woman—today, not back then—written by a woman who turned what she learned in graduate school into a Pulitzer Prize winning writing career. Applegate won that award for her first book, The Most Famous Man in America, a biography of the nineteenth-century minister Henry Ward Beecher.

(That book also serves as the sample proposal in the extraordinarily useful Thinking Like Your Editor: How to Write Great Serious Nonfiction—and Get It Published by Susan Rabiner (Applegate’s literary agent) and Alfred Fortunato. My copy is dog-eared now. It is the resource I turn to when I need to write a book proposal. Now I am reading Tilar Mazzeo’s How to Write a Bestseller: An Insider’s Guide to Writing Narrative Nonfiction for General Audiences, which may prove to be equally valuable.)

Madam is Applegate’s second book. (I admire an author who takes their time to conduct quality research.) I knew going in that it would be good. My interest in Madam extended beyond character to setting. Right now I want to read as much as I can about New York City in the 1920s to get background information for my current book-in-progress about Jane Grant, co-founder of The New Yorker.

Polly Adler was born around 1900; Jane in 1891. When Polly arrived in New York City from Russia in 1913, Jane had already been there (from Kansas) for five years. Both changed their first names to make a break with their pasts. The two young women struggled to gain a foothold in the city so they could live the life of their dreams. Each got what she wanted, mostly, in some way.

It is not unreasonable to think their paths may have crossed in New York in the 1920s, though trying to imagine that encounter makes my head spin. Polly opened her first brothel at the beginning of that decade that was known for its roar. By 1924, as Applegate writes, “her house had become an after-hours clubhouse for the adventurous Broadway bohemians who gathered at the Algonquin Hotel for lunch.” Jane Grant was a member of the legendary Round Table that met at the Algonquin. As was her husband, the talented editor Harold Ross. Their home was another “after-hours clubhouse” for the Round Tablers, though the entertainment they provided did not include Polly’s specialty.

(I have come to think of Jane as the anti-Polly.)

With some trepidation, I looked for Harold Ross’s name in the index of Madam and found it. (Jane’s is not there.) I could hardly bring myself to read what was on the corresponding page—would he turn out to be a rat or a super rat? But according to Applegate, Ross was “one of the few who failed to fall for Polly’s charms.” The lone time friends dragged him to her brothel, he carried along a stack of manuscripts, which he read “while the fun eddied around him.” This left me with a lot to think about.

I read about a quarter of Madam before I set it aside. It had nothing to do with the quality of the biography, which is as excellent as I anticipated, but rather because I started to consider it an ideal model for my book on Jane Grant. Too ideal. I am still very much at the beginning of my project, and I started to worry that I would imitate Applegate’s style. I do not want to cross the line between modeling and imitating. I need space, considerable space right now, to identify that boundary, to develop my own style and voice based on how I think Jane’s story needs to be told.

This is not the way I typically respond to the secondary (or published) sources I read for my book research. Every so often, though, I encounter a book—whether during leisure reading or work reading—I admire so much that I am overwhelmed by a sense of futility. (Also known, perhaps, as imposter syndrome.) As in, why should I continue to do what I do when someone has already published the perfect gem of a book. (Rebecca Donner’s All the Frequent Troubles of Our Days, about Mildred Harnack, was the last book to strike me like that.)

The feeling eventually passes, and, of course, I go on to do what I do, because what I write ends up different than what anyone else writes. And maybe it is as good, maybe not. But that is what happens. I write the best book I can.

When I’m ready for my first round of revisions on the (still in progress) rough draft, I might pick up Debby Applegate’s book again. Or maybe I will wait for the second round. But I know I will finish reading that biography. I need to find out what happened to Polly Adler. And I need to pay close attention to how Applegate makes me care.

Up next: more on this year of Jane Grant.

My 2024 Reading, Part Two: Nonfiction

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This year’s list of my favorite nonfiction contains two more books than last year. (I gave seven nonfiction books five stars on Good Reads in 2024 and five in 2023.) But like last year, I am also including a bonus section of books that I liked.

Biographies dominated these seven favorites of 2024. (Unlike last year, I read very few memoirs in 2024.) Most of the biographies were about women, though one, a family biography, features both men and women. Another, which also was not a biography (or at least a traditional biography), centers on a man but has a couple of strong female secondary characters. Its author is the only man to appear on this list of seven. Make of this what you will. (Mostly that there are a lot of women’s stories out there to explore and lots of women writers to do so.) Here are the books, roughly in the order in which I read them.

1. Mott Street: A Chinese American Family’s Story of Exclusion and Homecoming by Ava Chin. I remember being totally drawn into this book at the beginning of 2024, as I was getting ready to make my first trip to New York City. It is wonderfully written, with a delicate balance of history and family stories. Chin has produced an emotional yet not overly sentimental family biography.

2. The Art Thief: A True Story of Love, Crime, and a Dangerous Obsession by Michael Finkel. I was a bit late to this book mostly because it is not the kind of thing I usually read. But I was convinced by the title and the cover design to pick it up from the library and never regretted the decision. Finkel briskly tells the wild story of Stéphane Bréitwieser, who stole about $2 billion worth of art from various European museums. Then there is the revelation of what happened to some of the pieces. Yikes.

3. The Dress Diary: Secrets From a Victorian Woman’s Wardrobe by Kate Strasdin. Using surviving clothing fragments belonging to Anne Sykes, Strasdin skillfully recreates the world of this nineteenth-century Englishwoman. The author’s expertise as a fashion historian and museum curator really shines through in this creative history.

4. The Silenced Muse: Emily Hale, T.S. Eliot, and the Role of a Lifetime by Sara Fitzgerald. Emily Hale has appeared as a minor character in previous books about the poet Eliot, but Fitzgerald flips the relationship, investigating it from Hale’s perspective. (This does not end well for Eliot’s reputation as a human being.) Hale emerges as a fully formed character with a fascinating life.

5. Portrait of a Woman:Art, Rivalry, and Revolution in the Life of Adélaïde Labille-Guiard by Bridget Quinn. Adélaïde Labille-Guiard was a well-known and well-regarded painter in France during the 1700s, at least up until the French Revolution. Quinn makes good use of the scant information available on the artist’s life to restore her to her proper place in the historical record. And Quinn’s breezy writing style makes this biography a delight to read.

6. The World She Edited: Katharine S. White at The New Yorker by Amy Reading. The long-time fiction editor of The New Yorker magazine, which celebrates its 100th anniversary this year, receives a well-deserved biography that focuses on White’s ability to recognize talented writers and get their work published in the magazine. It is a fascinating portrait of an important literary life.

7. Loving Sylvia Plath: A Reclamation by Emily Van Duyne. Ted Hughes (like T.S. Eliot above) does not come off well in Van Duyne’s trenchant probing of not just Plath’s life, but how others have written about that life. Van Duyne makes a convincing—and haunting—case for Hughes as the ultimate in unreliable narrators. Reclamation, indeed.

Of the two bonus books from my 2024 reading, one is very much in line with most of the favorites listed above. Drew Gilpin Faust’s memoir, Necessary Trouble: Growing Up at Midcentury is an engaging account of the prominent historian’s involvement with the various social and political movements of the 1960s.

The other, Leave While the Party’s Good: The Life and Legacy of Baseball Executive Harry Dalton by Lee Kluck, is a book that anyone who knows me would not believe that I ever picked up. I am not a sports person. I don’t watch games or watch movies or shows about sports. (Well, okay, I did like Bend It Like Beckham and Bull Durham, and I have watched Field of Dreams. But otherwise, no.) (And actually, growing up at 2912, baseball was ubiquitous during the spring and summer. I knew spring had arrived when my mom set up her ironing board in front of the television in the family room so she could watch the Cubs while she ironed. I still know a lot about baseball.)

Lee Kluck was, many years ago, a student of mine, and I followed his writing journey with great interest. He has produced a nicely researched and crisply written biography of an important figure in major league baseball. The University of Nebraska Press, known for its sports series, published his book. So, yay for Lee and for Harry Dalton. If you or anyone you know is into sports biographies, do not miss this one.

That is a wrap on my favorites of 2024. Up next: some thoughts on a very good book I started reading in 2024 but have yet to finish.

May all the books you read in 2025 be good ones.

My 2024 Reading, Part One: Fiction

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Welcome to my annual reading round-up, in which I share my favorite books, both fiction (in this post) and nonfiction (in the next post). I prefer to stay away from the term “best” because of how subjective that is. These are the books I enjoyed in 2024, though a few may have been published earlier. Sometimes I don’t get around quickly to ones I want to read because of lengthy hold lists at the public library. Sometimes I’m interested in a book and know I’m not in the right mood to read it. So, reasons.

According to Goodreads, where I keep track of such things, I read five more books in 2024 than I did in 2023—from 46 to 51. (Yet for some reason it seems like I did not read much. I’m not sure why—it may have to do with the time I have been spending on my new book project.)

Of the novels I read in 2024, I marked five with five stars. Because there are so few, I find it impossible to rank them. Instead, these are listed in roughly the chronological order I read them. (Not surprisingly, they are all historical.)

1. The Storm We Made by Vanessa Chan. Set in World War II Malaya, this riveting historical drama depicts the heartbreaking choices people make during an enemy occupation. Cecily Alcantara, a devoted wife and mother, finds herself in increasingly impossible situations.

2. The Wren, the Wren by Anne Enright. Nell McDaragh, granddaughter of a famous Irish poet, and her mother Carmel, the poet’s daughter, both struggle with his legacy. Sensitive and beautifully written.

3. The Vaster Wilds by Lauren Groff. This novel is utterly and admirably void of any romancing of the early years of the English colonization of North America. Propelled by a pervasive sense of dread and entranced by the brutal beauty of the story, I could not stop reading.

4. The Road from Belhaven by Margot Livesey. Character and setting are pitch perfect in this historical drama set in rural Scotland during the nineteenth century. A young woman can see some glimpses of the future but has to figure out what to make of the information.

5. Whale Fall by Elizabeth O’Connor. Just before the beginning of World War II, a young woman living on a small Welsh island is unexpectedly confronted with the opportunity to change the anticipated course of her future. Delicate and lovely.

Additional recommendations (very close to five stars):

Two of my favorite mystery writers published new additions to their long-running series. Jacqueline Winspear drew her excellent Maisie Dobbs series to a close with The Comfort of Ghosts, which provided a satisfying ending. With Pay Dirt, Sara Paretsky delivered another powerful installment of her V.I. Warshawski investigations.

Alice McDermott’s Absolution depicts U.S. involvement in Vietnam in the 1960s from the perspective of white American women living there with their husbands. Very thought-provoking.

The God of the Woods by Liz Moore is a well-crafted mystery that made me glad I never went away to summer camp.

And the biggest surprise of my 2024 reading was Elizabeth Crook’s The Madstone, which I pulled off the library’s Westerns shelf on a whim and got helplessly drawn into the story.

Up next: My favorite nonfiction books of 2024.