At 250, Jane Austen is so fresh to those of us who are her fans we read her with baited breath.
As if we hadn’t met Mr. Darcy before.
Mr. Darcy and all the women, the Emmas, Catherines, and Elizabeth Bennets whom, in fact, I’ve met so often. If you like Austen, you have met them all as well.
On December 16th, let’s raise our book jackets to Ms. Austen.
There are many ways to tell a story. I knew that but hearing Ann Pachett debunk my “they write themselves” theory and talk about writing as work¹ was confirming.
Like the book Patchett is reading to me, the story I intend to tell is about “a happy marriage.” These stories are fraught; the telling is fraught.
I layout what I have to say conversationally. I am talking to myself. Will the story flow as smoothly and easily when I finally get it out on paper? [Or, more precisely, on electronic page?]
As the cliché goes, and saying that makes it no less clichéd, stay tuned. Aka, I’m working on it.
Note to self, and you, dear reader, I never tried to support myself on my writing. I am an amateur. Amateur auteur has a ring, yes?
¹This Is A Story Of A Happy Marriage, written by Ann Patchett, read by the author. HarperAudio
My joke du jour is that pretty soon I will no longer know how to read. I have made books part of my everyday, but I enjoy them in audio form.
Books were absent from my life for many years. While Burt was well, we were busy together and I couldn’t immerse myself in a book. When he got sick, I couldn’t find the concentration.
Since Burt passed, I have raced through a small library of books. I enjoy them in clumps: a bunch of Sue Grafton’s [re-reads]; some Ronald H. Balsan novels; several Fiona Davis stories; a burgeoning collection of Lisa Jewell works; a smattering of Frieda McFadden’s grim p.o.v.; all lightened by Janet Evanovich. There are other titles I have devoured, like Yellowface, James, or The Street; I read a few Isabel Allende works, as well as Like Mother, Like Mother; the intriguing The Lady in Gold; I finished The Four Winds and Educated; I recommend the odd Elinor Olliphant is Fine and American Dirt, too.
In fact, I recommend the whole enterprise that involves hearing a lovely voice read Jane Austen, or Taylor Jenkins Reid, or Mark Twain aloud to you. It gives to the activity of reading an entirely new dimension. I find it very pleasant, this story hour in which I indulge.
Every book has become a bus man’s holiday.
You read magazine articles that underlie your trade.
The books on your nightstand preach a deeper understanding of what you do by day.
A novel would be novel. Wouldn’t it?
All The Best