Now that I am reading novels again besides my own, I’ve found myself wondering this.
Certainly, there are things you read not being old enough to understand them; anyone who grew up bookish and nerdy knows about this. I read “A Tale of Two Cities” with a dogged sense of purpose and complete incomprehension when bedridden with some childhood ailment, maybe age 9 or 10. I tried to read “Lolita” at 14 and gave up, freaked out by its creepy narrator and innocent of the notion of literary irony.
Then there are the children’s books read and loved only as an adult. They might not have been written when one is the right age to read them — in my case Philip Pullman’s Dark Materials trilogy — or were inexplicably missed; I think especially of “Tuck Everlasting” and “I Capture the Castle.” I read all these in my 30s, and thought two things: These are amazing! And, I should have read them 15 or 20 years earlier.
How many times have I finished “The Jane Austen Project”?
There was the time in 2011 when I had to get it ready to share with my manuscript workshop classmates, the time in early 2013 before I started writing query letters to agents, the time in mid-2014 when I was getting ready to share it with my writing group and a writing coach. The time in late 2014 when I again started writing query letters. Now it’s almost the second quarter of 2015, and I am about ready to send it my acquiring editor. Which is to say, I have not seen the end of this.
If there is one thing I have learned that might possibly help other aspiring writers, it’s that “done” is a relative term. People give up too soon, from what I have seen. They have an interesting idea, are fueled by passion and work hard at it. Then they either get discouraged or press on through the discouragement and finish. And if the latter, start trying to get an agent and get published. The likely failure of this effort might prompt despair or the decision to self-publish, but neither might be the right reaction. It might be better to put it away for a while. Start something else. Take a writing class. Reread “Middlemarch.” Then come back to it and see if it did what you set out for it to do.
Each time I believed I was done, I was not wrong, exactly. But the meaning changes over time, like everything else on this earth.
With the much-heralded release of the film version of the much-heralded book, it’s hard to avoid thinking about Fifty Shades of Grey, the work that has given fresh hope to a million unknown optimists writing self-published fanfiction, that made pornography respectable and brought bondage into the mainstream, and has become a touchstone for terrible prose. But this weekend I found myself instead thinking of something else; I found myself thinking of Clarissa. A book I read almost seven years ago and find myself unable to get past.
You want a story of dominance and submission? You want a rich, creepy, brilliant and controlling male lead? Robert Lovelace leaves Christian Grey eating his dust. And Clarissa Harlowe, handsome, clever and rich, but unfortunately born in the wrong century and created by the wrong author, makes Anastasia Steele look even more loser-ly and pathetic than she already is. There is drama, heartbreak, betrayal, drug use, Stockholm syndrome, cliffhangers and gender battles. As God is my witness, there’s everything.
I can’t be the only person to find this business with Harper Lee a little fishy. Just like that, a manuscript turns up? After 50-odd years? As Atticus Finch might ask, cui bono? Certainly not Harper Lee herself, who has shown no hunger for fame or money thus far.
And, really, can one actually misplace a manuscript? I think Hemingway once lost a suitcase containing one — but he was on the move a lot. I’d be thrilled to hear of a lost manuscript by Bruno Schulz found stuffed between floorboards in Drohobycz — but he was shot dead on the street by the Gestapo, a tragic example of someone who left his literary affairs in disarray. Sure it is possible to lose track of a manuscript, but perhaps harder when you live as quiet a life as Harper Lee has.
When we look closer, the story grows more complicated. It wasn’t so much “lost” as set aside and (perhaps) forgotten. The tale of an older Scout and an older Atticus set in the 1950s, it seems to have been an ur-Mockingbird, a thing Harper Lee’s editor told her wasn’t quite working. “Why don’t you write about her as a girl instead? That’d probably be more interesting.” Which turned out to be true. If there had been more to the novel, something Harper Lee wanted to return to and improve, it’s hard to understand why she did not do so sometime between then and now. Hard to avoid thinking she took the best parts for use in “Mockingbird.”
The book is sure to sell, yet I suspect most people who loved “Mockingbird” will be disappointed. To me, its greatest interest will be literary-forensic: How does her writing look unedited? What were the elements of “Mockingbird” that were there from the start, and what came later? What was the story she thought she was trying to tell, until persuaded the real story lay elsewhere?
Literature is full of such false starts, but we rarely get to read them. The speculation among Jane Austen scholars, for instance, is that “Sense and Sensibility,” “Pride and Prejudice,” or maybe both, were originally told in letters. Jane Austen’s own mention in a letter that she was chopping “Pride and Prejudice” to prepare it for publication, some 15 years after she first wrote an earlier version. How the mind reels at this! What did she take out?
To call the last few weeks surreal seems both a gross understatement and an injustice to that 20th-century art movement, yet no other word can capture the uncanny way everything is sort of the same, yet a bit off; like reality, but not. In the first week of January a literary agent, the inimitable Sam Stoloff, enlisted his aid in selling “The Jane Austen Project.” In the fourth week of January G.P. Putnam’s Sons agreed to buy it.
If I had never found an agent or a publisher, would my life still make sense? I like to think it would; it’s depressing to contemplate a meaningful existence being reliant on something so completely outside of one’s control. Is the writing itself not its own reward? I feel even more now that it is, and that it has to be. To expect fame, money or even admiration and respect to follow is the height of folly, like standing on a golf course on a humid August day in North Carolina and waiting to be struck by lightning: not impossible, but not likely either. And the sad piles of review copies I always find lying around my office, unheralded and forgotten, are my cautionary lesson, my own little Ozymandias.
Seventy-five percent in, and I feel how I have misjudged it in what I wrote, for at some point since then I tipped over into the point at which fiction resembles magic. I no longer see Tolstoy’s little tricks, how he’s pulling the reader’s strings, but am simply being pulled by them. I’m utterly beguiled; I’ve forgotten I’m reading in translation. All I feel is how it’s all becoming deeper and somehow stranger and at the same time solid and real. Continue reading →
I fulfilled my goal of finishing my revision of The Jane Austen Project — a crucial reason for my silence here. That was back in September, or maybe October, depending on how one defines “finish” and “revision,” but now it is, it is, it is. No longer mine entirely, I am in the process of letting go of it. Nobody explains, in books that tell you how to write a novel, what a problem that really is.
And I can’t help wondering, as I reread Anna Karenina once again, did Tolstoy have this problem? Continue reading →