The Tools and Process of a Famous Writer: Margaret Mitchell

Mitchell's Remington typewriter and some of those manila envelopes

In my early 20s, I was working in media services for Georgia Power Co. when a copywriter mentioned she was on her way to interview a retiree who'd started his career as copyboy to John Marsh, husband of writer Margaret Mitchell. Knowing I was an avid reader and "a Yankee fan" of Gone with the Wind (GWTW), she let me tag along. He lived in a Buckhead high-rise and, during the interview, described Marsh as a precise and meticulous editor. Afterwards I read a Mitchell biography that confirmed Marsh was one of the unsung heroes of the Pulitzer-winning novel, someone whose opinion Mitchell trusted above all others.

It's the stuff of literary legend that Mitchell started working on GWTW while recovering from a broken ankle. Actually, this recuperation began with reading nearly every book from the Atlanta library (Carnegie branch), until finally Marsh got tired of dragging home armloads of books and said, "You've read all but maths and sciences! Why don't you write a book?" To help her, he brought home a Remington typewriter.

Here are some other "backstories" you might not have heard:

•  Having been a features reporter for the Atlanta Journal Sunday magazine, Mitchell began work each day on GWTW as if she was headed into the office: she'd put on office clothes, a little make-up, prop her damaged ankle, and start tapping on her Remington.

•  She didn't work from an outline. Much of it came out of her head, but she did research extensively by scouring old newspaper articles, letters, and diaries from the period. A great many insights came from her parents and relatives who still remembered the Civil War in vivid detail. She'd grown up with their stories.

•  She had attended Smith College (Class of 1922) and it was another Smith alum, Lois Cole '24, who brought her to the attention of Harold Latham, editor in chief at Macmillan Co., then the nation's most esteemed publisher — and Cole's boss. Having been social acquaintances, Cole knew of Mitchell's manuscript about a Southern belle who survives the Civil War, and urged Latham to speak with Mitchell when he went on a cross-country search for new talent. The road to getting GWTW published solidified a close friendship between the two women that endured until Mitchell's death in 1949.

•  The manuscript was a mess. As each chapter was done, Mitchell stuck it into a manila envelope. Soon, dozens of manila envelopes were scattered throughout the Mitchells' tiny apartment (if you've ever visited this historic site in Atlanta, you'll know it's really tiny). Sometimes they were used to prop up the wobbly leg of a sofa, and Mitchell would throw a towel over them when guests dropped by.

More than that, it wasn't a fully completed manuscript — and it was disorganized as well. The first chapter was still in outline form. There were multiple versions of multiple chapters, and major gaps in the story line. It was Cole, rather than Latham, who sat with the entire pile of manila envelopes and edited the pieces into something resembling a manuscript. She also functioned as a literary agent, smoothing over nettled contract negotiations, easing Mitchell's jangled nerves during the rewrites, and consulting with Macmillan's art department on the marketing strategy.

• Mitchell knew herself to be a loquacious and over-embellishing narrator: as a writer, her struggle was to pare down her prose so the story might be "read while riding a galloping horse." It took from 1926 to 1936 to write GWTW, but if you've ever read Irene Selznick's autobiography (A Private View), you'll know it was an exhilarating moment when producer David Selznick travelled with the book galleys in his hand and noticed every passenger on his flight was avidly turning the pages of a story he hoped to make into a movie.