Earlier this spring, Belt Publishing — an imprint that focuses on books about Rust Belt cities — put Susan Glaspell’s 1915 novel Fidelity back into print with a new introduction by Sarah Blackwood, professor of English at Pace University.
The Iowa-born and -raised Glaspell, as Blackwood argues, is best remembered today for her work as a playwright, if she is remembered at all. Her novels (and plays) went out of print after her death in 1948, despite receiving critical acclaim in her lifetime and exerting immense influence on modern literature. As a result, the beautiful new editions of Fidelity issued by Belt Publishing are reopening an opportunity for readers to return to her fraught, passionate and ahead-of-its-time writing.
Though she was originally from Davenport, Glaspell sets Fidelity in Freeport, Iowa — a small, unincorporated community near Decorah. From the jump, the story throws readers into a run of the rules of proper Freeport society and respectability politics. While at first you are forced to be on the outside of the drama at the heart of the book, the deftly deployed narrative fog gives way slowly, and then all at once, to reveal that Fidelity is, at its heart, about Ruth Holland, a woman who ran away with a married man 12 years prior to the opening scene of the book.
What follows is an examination of the consequences of that choice. Rather than telling a straightforward story about the importance of loyalty to the right people and ideals — something that would have been predictable given the historical context at hand — Glaspell writes in a manner that subverts that trope entirely.
Instead, tactfully, she opens up the reader to the minds and experiences of not only Ruth, but her parents, three siblings, friends and the generation that has recently come of age. In doing so, Glaspell is able to tell a story about people trying to make the best lives they can for themselves, navigating the politics of womanhood, disability, capitalism, loyalty and love — all catalyzed by Ruth’s choice to be with her married lover.
By not resoving any of the questions she sets up, Glaspell drives home a simple, timeless truth: there are no simple answers to life’s biggest questions, nor a formula for living the most joyous life possible.
Additionally, the book itself pushes boundaries, not only in the direct text but also in the subtext. There are blink-and-you’ll-miss-them allusions to possible abortions, unusually direct (even if still tame) questions about the importance of fulfilled sexual desires, and more moments that made the work feel particularly driven by an early feminist epistemology.
As a result, when you arrive at the end of the novel you can’t help but turn inward and think about those questions with no simple answers; who do you owe your fidelity to, what would you do for love, what do we owe one another, and what makes a life well lived. To me, that makes Fidelity the perfect novel for those coming of age at a time where the world around us is more likely to provide questions than answers. I suppose Glaspell would argue that has always been the reality.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s June 2026 issue.
