I discovered P.D. James and Ruth Rendell while working at Pickwick Bookshop in Hollywood in the early 1970s. Their work came to me effortlessly, without recommendations from colleagues or friends; they seemed to seek me out. I was about 20 years old then. Dusting the mystery section at Pickwick, I was simply drawn to the authors’ faces on the dust jackets, their fierce Englishness, and the creepy cleverness of their titles. I became their instant devotee.
Discovering novelists when we are young and then spending the rest of our lives reading their books can influence how we think about ourselves, and others. The character studies in James’s and Rendell’s books are so insightful that, over the decades, they became mirrors for my own developing personality—sans the violence and paranoia festering in the criminal mind. The most abiding fiction ignites self-awareness; I owe a great deal to James and Rendell for my self-awareness.
James’s elegant Scotland Yard Commander Adam Dalgliesh inspired me, as I grew older, to attempt subtlety and restraint in my human interactions. Dalgliesh never loses his temper, is unfailingly polite, and is comfortable with his erudition. His behavior in the world is impeccable, his intelligence never used to intimidate. Have I achieved these characteristics? Hardly. Yet I still view Dalgliesh as a role model for a civilized life. He is a complicated man as well, one who struggles with relationships and holds the world at bay more often than not. Over the decades, though, as I cultivated my inner life, James transformed Dalgliesh into a softer, more empathetic version of himself. James made me aware that perhaps I, too, was making that shift.
When James passed through Los Angeles in 1990 on tour for Devices & Desires, I waited anxiously in line at the Mysterious Bookshop (which closed, sadly, in 2011), until I stood before James at a small table, where she signed my copy. I told her that her writing had changed my life. She looked directly into my eyes and in her sonorous English accent said sincerely, “Thank you veddy, veddy much.” I was thrilled.
In Rendell, I found a kindred spirit, one as fascinated as I was by the notion of mental illness. Her characters articulated the nuances of insanity and evil narcissism. Rendell’s ability to create these characters so authentically and matter-of-factly helped me grasp these psychological deviances. Conversely, her beloved character, Insp. Reginald Wexford, to whom Rendell has devoted dozens of books, resonated with my desire for an affectionate domesticity. “Reg” lives in the charming English village of Kingsmarkham with his doting family and is the mouthpiece for Rendell’s dry, often hilarious wit and perplexity on the modern world. Over time, the Wexford novels gave me permission to reach out, unapologetically, for a bigger share of love in my life.
I did not live vicariously through Rendell’s characters; I simply found myself through them, as I had with the characters of James’s creation.
I had the great privilege of interviewing Rendell in 2012 in New York, where we sat over cups of coffee in an easy and instant intimacy. There I was with one of my literary idols, and Rendell—who does not suffer fools—apparently liked me and insisted we continue our chat long after it was scheduled to end. We laughed together, we got each other, and a series of fond emails followed.
Along with a world of others, I grieved when James died last November. It wasn’t long before Rendell came to mind. She and James had enjoyed a great decades-long friendship, and so I sent her a condolence email. She wrote back immediately: “I am very sad but not surprised,” she said. “Her own life could hardly have been a greater success. I am sure she died happy, and I shall miss her. Apart from being such a fine writer, she was truly a good woman.”
Just a few weeks later, Rendell suffered a serious stroke and was reported to be in critical condition. There have been no further statements from her family, and I worry now that Rendell may never write again. What a terrible misfortune that she and James may have left us at the same time. After reading their books for 40 years, it’s clear to me that they were two of my mentors in this life, walking invisibly beside me as I embraced and then passed middle age, their books never failing to show me who I am. Surely this is a writer’s greatest gift.
Wendy Werris is a contributing editor for PW and a freelance journalist and editor in Los Angeles.
