Mark Twain Would Laugh It Off… So I Guess I Will, Too

A few weeks back, I almost committed all of the Seven Deadly Writer Sins.

What are those, you ask ever so politely? Well, I took the time to write up the entire list in detail:

  1. Missing a deadline.
  2. Missing a deadline.
  3. Missing a deadline.
  4. Missing a deadline.
  5. Missing a deadline.
  6. Missing a deadline.
  7. Gluttony.

Guys, I almost missed a deadline. And then I almost ate all the cheese in my refrigerator as a snack punishment.

It was even possibly sort of totally my fault. If it was my fault, I simply wrote down the wrong date (very unlike me, but apparently it maybe happens?). If it wasn’t, then someone is conspiring against me in secret by altering dates in a shared Google spreadsheet just to imagine my suffering (not cool, but also not likely).

In any case, I had 24 hours’ notice that my Mark Twain piece was going to go live on Headstuff. And all I’d prepared was an introduction, a smattering of illegible notes scribbled in a palm-sized writer’s pad, and a title they didn’t even end up using.

I did what any sane person would do: ignored the pile of work waiting in my inbox, typed furiously for half the day (pausing only to screech into the next room that the music was too loud), and then debated whether to eat a buffet of cheese.

But I finished, fueled by panic and old iced tea. I may not have done Mark Twain justice, but I was never going to, was I? Sometimes the perfectionist in me needs to move aside so the she-demon I call The Salem Bitch Troll can step up to the pyre and set herself ablaze.

This is a long preface to a short and depressing, bald and divorced reality: I could have done better. What with the time constraints, and the panic, and all, I veered toward the safe and easy territory of “Standard-Mark-Twain-Bio-Insert-Stock-Image-of-Mississippi-River-Here.” In other words, I put a chicken in the oven, but I didn’t season it. I tossed some paprika on top just before the timer went off, but I knew it wouldn’t make much of a difference. And then, as soon as I washed down that dry, lukewarm chicken with a zesty glass of relief, it turned to solid, spiky guilt in the pit of my stomach.

I didn’t tell any of the funniest anecdotes from my tour of The Mark Twain House & Museum. I didn’t tell the one about how, in Venice, he and his wife were swindled into overpaying for a dark walnut bed frame, complete with creepy cherubim carved into the headboard—and how he insisted on sleeping backwards (at the foot of the bed) so he could get his money’s worth from the view. I didn’t tell the one about how his daughters would often remove the angels from the headboard to bathe and dress them up like dolls. I didn’t tell the one about how he used to narrate stories in the library every evening based on objects from the mantelpiece; the objects remained the same each night, but his stories always differed.


I even managed to screw up this photo. His house had a roof, I swear.

I didn’t mention that The Adventures of Tom Sawyer is loosely based on Twain’s boyhood, or that one of Twain’s most quoted lines—”I am not an American; I am the American”—should, in fact, be attributed to his friend Frank Fuller. I also forgot to include Helen Keller’s first impression of him:

He has his own way of thinking, saying, and doing everything. I feel the twinkle of his eye in his handshake. . . . He makes you feel that his heart is a tender Iliad of human sympathy.

So yeah, I suck forever and ever, and there’s just no forgiving myself. (Or, rather, the person who conspired against me. That brilliant bastard.)

All I can do now, I suppose, is get a six-week head start on my Edith Wharton article for the same literary series over at Headstuff. Twain might have a sense of humor about all this, and high-five me in the afterlife, but Wharton—the first woman to win the Pulitzer, and a comprehensive badass—could probably liquefy my entire being just by pursing her lips.

Let’s not find out, shall we?