Bill Watterson, J. D. Salinger, and the reclusive life

When the box arrives, it contains return postage and a return address label, along with some 15 copies of my opuses and some blank labels the sender can stick in other books after I’ve scrawled my name on them. I repack the box when I’ve autographed everything, reseal the package, and apply the postage and the return label. The whole process takes about 15 minutes, plus the time I have to stand in line at the post office.

It’s a minor interruption in my personal schedule, and I get some satisfaction out of the knowledge there are people who want to own autographed copies of my stories and novels. But how would I feel if I had to do it every day? How would I respond if my email brought me a dozen requests every week?

A solitary man

I thought of that when J. D. Salinger died in 2010, and I read obituaries that described him as a “recluse.” I thought about it again when I read Roz Warren’s birthday tribute to Bill Watterson, the creator of Calvin and Hobbes who keeps his address secret and avoids contact with his fans.

To me, a recluse is someone who shuns human contact of all kinds. J. D. Salinger, according to his obituaries, entertained friends, had a couple of relationships with women, visited his publishers in New York, and seems to have traveled freely about the small town where he lived. He lived, as a far as I can tell, like most of the writers I know.

Roz Warren describes Bill Watterson as an “introvert,” not a recluse, but he doesn’t sound any more introverted than writers who are willing to let people know where they live. Consider the statement that he’s asked friends and relatives not to reveal his whereabouts. That implies he has friends, communicates with friends and family, and makes requests they are willing to honor.

Neither of these gentlemen seems particularly abnormal. They are simply creative people who decided the disadvantages of literary fame outweigh its rewards.

The news media didn’t label Salinger a recluse because he wouldn’t talk to his friends and neighbors. They labeled him a recluse because he wouldn’t talk to them.

"You like me! You really like me!"

Most writers welcome requests to give interviews and make public appearances. Increased visibility equals increased sales. When a writer autographs books after a reading, every newly sold copy of a $25 hardcover can add $3.75 to the writer’s bank account. Journalists understand that and consider it normal.

J. D. Salinger didn’t need public appearances. He became a literary brand name with the publication of his first novel, Catcher in the Rye, and his books apparently brought him a comfortable living for the rest of his life. Catcher, in addition, became a cult classic. If Salinger hadn’t made some attempt to defend himself, he would have been besieged by teenage boys who thought they were real-life examples of Holden Caulfield and knew Salinger would be thrilled when he heard his book had saved them from loneliness and suicidal fantasies.

Calvin and Hobbes has acquired cult status, too. I don’t know what kind of attention Watterson feels compelled to avoid, but I can imagine it. The first time someone approaches you in a restaurant and shows you a picture of their kid hugging his toy tiger, you may find it charming and gratifying. The 90th incident may arouse less pleasant feelings.

Writers generally appreciate fan mail and public attention. We work for invisible audiences. Musicians and actors receive a round of applause at the end of a successful performance; we receive sales reports from book publishers and circulation figures gathered from the annual reports magazines publish for the benefit of potential advertisers. Fan mail and public appearances transform the statistics into real people with specific emotional reactions to our labors.

But everything has its limits. For most writers, the negative aspects of public attention are a minor inconvenience. For Salinger and Watterson, they could have snowballed into a major disruption.

I’m not convinced they made the right choice. When you build a wall around your private life, the wall attracts some of the attention you’re trying to avoid and creates tensions of its own. Stephen King seems to live a reasonably normal life without imposing a total embargo on public contacts. Ray Bradbury bicycled around Los Angeles and participated in public events. But I don’t think writers who avoid the spotlight should be considered unusually withdrawn. Anyone who has signed a hundred copies of a book knows that the trappings of fame can become time-consuming, enervating chores.