banality of your prose.
All best,
O.
From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]
To: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]
Subject: RE: Necessary Improvements
Dear O,
I’m sorry you dislike the way I write sentences. Have you considered that it might be because you’re not reading them aloud, in a Russian accent? Usually I find that helps.
I have done creative writing before. I greatly dislike it.
Best,
Samantha
To: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]
From: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Necessary Improvements
It surprises me that you dislike writing, given your family history. In addition to next week’s assignment, I would like you to read the writing the Brontës penned as small children—you will locate it in the library under “Brontë Juvenilia.” Have you read The Chronicles of Angria ? Or The Tales of Gondal ? I think you will discover that reading stream of consciousness will help ease your inner critic.
I couldn’t think of a nonhostile response, so I chose not to respond at all. There was only one reason my “inner critic” was so well nourished: James Orville. Nothing squashes creativity quite like a frowning British man. And yes, I had read the Brontës’ juvenilia, thank you. All of it. The Brontë siblings began writing as very small children, before they even developed the full vocabulary to express their thoughts. As a child, I had read those stories cover to cover, over and over again. I did not have any brothers or sisters, and as a result, I would dream myself into the Brontës’ darkened living room and pretend that I was there, too, on those stormy evenings, in the middle of all the chaos and all the tantrums as the Brontë siblings wrote their very first stories.
In my mind, I would always be sitting next to Anne on the east side of the dining room table. Emily would be to my right. There would be blank parchment in front of us, because whenever you walked into the Brontë home, there was always blank parchment in front of you. Occasionally, Branwell or Charlotte would stand up by the fireplace to recite their latest masterpieces. I had never liked Branwell. He was confident, swaggering, bigmouthed, and incurably in love with himself—the kind of person who would never have been nice in high school. He was a young man in a world that existed to benefit young men. Twelve-year-old Charlotte would be small, compact, and quarrelsome, like a Viking child. The two of them would often act out the latest adventures from Angria, the imaginary world they had created together, one inhabited by swashbuckling adventurers and plagued by the political intrigue of the rakish Lord Northangerland. Emily, Anne, and I—seated at the table, glassy-eyed—would watch patiently as the latest drama unfolded.
I knew why Orville wanted me to read The Chronicles of Angria . Charlotte and Branwell’s prose was wild, passionate, and unencumbered. This was imagination in its purest form, perfectly transcribed from two young, uncorrupted brains. Historians later discovered The Chronicles of Angria and concluded that Charlotte and Branwell’s imaginary world was a sweet, playful, grammatically terrifying yet overall beautiful expression of childhood. Orville, I’m sure, would agree. I saw it quite a different way. Anyone who had spent time in that darkened living room with the girls and me would have seen how earnestly Anne and Emily would have loathed the writing of their two self-righteous siblings. Anyone who paid attention would know that Anne and Emily disappeared every night after midnight to develop their own imaginary land. Under the covers of Emily’s bed, they would exchange the daily news from Gondal, a glorious world of dueling dragons, ruined castles, haunted buildings, fainting heroines, underground passageways, crypts, catacombs, labyrinths, omens, villains, curses, and magic. The imaginary kingdom of Gondal became Emily’s pride
All best,
O.
From: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]
To: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]
Subject: RE: Necessary Improvements
Dear O,
I’m sorry you dislike the way I write sentences. Have you considered that it might be because you’re not reading them aloud, in a Russian accent? Usually I find that helps.
I have done creative writing before. I greatly dislike it.
Best,
Samantha
To: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]
From: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: Necessary Improvements
It surprises me that you dislike writing, given your family history. In addition to next week’s assignment, I would like you to read the writing the Brontës penned as small children—you will locate it in the library under “Brontë Juvenilia.” Have you read The Chronicles of Angria ? Or The Tales of Gondal ? I think you will discover that reading stream of consciousness will help ease your inner critic.
I couldn’t think of a nonhostile response, so I chose not to respond at all. There was only one reason my “inner critic” was so well nourished: James Orville. Nothing squashes creativity quite like a frowning British man. And yes, I had read the Brontës’ juvenilia, thank you. All of it. The Brontë siblings began writing as very small children, before they even developed the full vocabulary to express their thoughts. As a child, I had read those stories cover to cover, over and over again. I did not have any brothers or sisters, and as a result, I would dream myself into the Brontës’ darkened living room and pretend that I was there, too, on those stormy evenings, in the middle of all the chaos and all the tantrums as the Brontë siblings wrote their very first stories.
In my mind, I would always be sitting next to Anne on the east side of the dining room table. Emily would be to my right. There would be blank parchment in front of us, because whenever you walked into the Brontë home, there was always blank parchment in front of you. Occasionally, Branwell or Charlotte would stand up by the fireplace to recite their latest masterpieces. I had never liked Branwell. He was confident, swaggering, bigmouthed, and incurably in love with himself—the kind of person who would never have been nice in high school. He was a young man in a world that existed to benefit young men. Twelve-year-old Charlotte would be small, compact, and quarrelsome, like a Viking child. The two of them would often act out the latest adventures from Angria, the imaginary world they had created together, one inhabited by swashbuckling adventurers and plagued by the political intrigue of the rakish Lord Northangerland. Emily, Anne, and I—seated at the table, glassy-eyed—would watch patiently as the latest drama unfolded.
I knew why Orville wanted me to read The Chronicles of Angria . Charlotte and Branwell’s prose was wild, passionate, and unencumbered. This was imagination in its purest form, perfectly transcribed from two young, uncorrupted brains. Historians later discovered The Chronicles of Angria and concluded that Charlotte and Branwell’s imaginary world was a sweet, playful, grammatically terrifying yet overall beautiful expression of childhood. Orville, I’m sure, would agree. I saw it quite a different way. Anyone who had spent time in that darkened living room with the girls and me would have seen how earnestly Anne and Emily would have loathed the writing of their two self-righteous siblings. Anyone who paid attention would know that Anne and Emily disappeared every night after midnight to develop their own imaginary land. Under the covers of Emily’s bed, they would exchange the daily news from Gondal, a glorious world of dueling dragons, ruined castles, haunted buildings, fainting heroines, underground passageways, crypts, catacombs, labyrinths, omens, villains, curses, and magic. The imaginary kingdom of Gondal became Emily’s pride
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