said Joe smoothly, “I’d be going for a higher-profile society than this. As it happens, I’m a big Janeite, okay? I love her sexy heroines.”
A few boos and hisses rose from the seated company.
“Modern heroines are predictably passive. Catch Jane Austen’s heroines positioning themselves as victims.”
“He only does that to annoy,” said purple sweater. “Ignore him. Can I ask a question?”
Georgina’s heart sank. Here it came; this girl could easily be older than the others. She was a doctoral student, her doctorate was on Jane Austen, she was going to make mincemeat of her, Georgina.
“How long did it take you to write
Magdalene Crib
?”
All those present sat up, alert, attentive, interested.
“Do any of you want to be writers?” Georgina asked, seeing a lifeline stretching out to her.
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Was it hard to get published?”
“How did you get an agent?”
The quicksands of Jane Austenland receded into the distance, and with an inward prayer of thanks to whichever muse looked after distressed authors and had so mercifully and efficiently come to her aid, she launched into answers. This she could spin out for the length of even the longest meeting. What she couldn’t answertruthfully, she could invent. That at least she was good at; weren’t all novelists, at root, purveyors of convincing fibs?
“Yes, I’m deep into my second book. No, I don’t want to talk about it right now, it’s better, I find, not to talk too much about a work in progress.”
“Do you make enough to live on?”
Joe intervened. “That’s getting a bit personal, and, as you should be aware, since you weren’t here when I introduced our speaker, Dr. Jackson holds a research fellowship at London University.”
Mary, who had put on a pair of owlish glasses, too large for her small, pointed face, had been busy scribbling copious notes and fiddling with her recorder. Now she looked up and lifted a pen to attract attention. As she opened her mouth, Georgina recognized a fellow American, and a sixth sense told her that this one wasn’t going to ask how much she got as an advance for her second book.
“As a post-feminist writer—”
“As a what?”
“We’re all post-feminists now.”
“I’m not a post-anything. And, in general, I’m not too keen on
ism
s.”
“
Ism
s?”
“Feminism, modernism. Communism. Fascism.”
“What about fascism? Don’t you disapprove of fascism?”
“I mean I don’t care for words ending in
ism. Ism
s are trouble.
Ism
s are indicative of portmanteau thinking.”
“Would you care to elucidate on that?”
“Thoughts, opinions, ideas, all stuffed into a bag. As it were. Not assessed case by case. Not thought through from the root. Radically.”
“Do you consider yourself a radical writer?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Thank you, Mary,” said Joe.
Purple sweater shot her neighbour a withering glance, and asked about digital versions of
Magdalene Crib
. That started a lively debate and a heated discussion about copyright and royalties and free downloads.
Joe finally raised his voice. “I think we have time for one last question. As president, I’ll use my privilege to ask it. Tell me, Dr. Jackson, as a writer, you must have been influenced by Jane Austen. Which of her writings do you think has had the greatest impact on your own work?”
Georgina’s mind was a blank. At this moment, she couldn’t remember the title of a single one of the wretched woman’s novels.
“I couldn’t say it was one more than another. As a writer, one draws on so many sources, historical and contemporary, of which fiction is only one strand. So you could say, all of them.”
One thing she did know how to do was to conclude a session. “I’d like to thank you for asking me here this evening, and for providing such interesting and stimulating questions.”
Joe formally wound up the meeting, and then with easy courtesy
A few boos and hisses rose from the seated company.
“Modern heroines are predictably passive. Catch Jane Austen’s heroines positioning themselves as victims.”
“He only does that to annoy,” said purple sweater. “Ignore him. Can I ask a question?”
Georgina’s heart sank. Here it came; this girl could easily be older than the others. She was a doctoral student, her doctorate was on Jane Austen, she was going to make mincemeat of her, Georgina.
“How long did it take you to write
Magdalene Crib
?”
All those present sat up, alert, attentive, interested.
“Do any of you want to be writers?” Georgina asked, seeing a lifeline stretching out to her.
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Was it hard to get published?”
“How did you get an agent?”
The quicksands of Jane Austenland receded into the distance, and with an inward prayer of thanks to whichever muse looked after distressed authors and had so mercifully and efficiently come to her aid, she launched into answers. This she could spin out for the length of even the longest meeting. What she couldn’t answertruthfully, she could invent. That at least she was good at; weren’t all novelists, at root, purveyors of convincing fibs?
“Yes, I’m deep into my second book. No, I don’t want to talk about it right now, it’s better, I find, not to talk too much about a work in progress.”
“Do you make enough to live on?”
Joe intervened. “That’s getting a bit personal, and, as you should be aware, since you weren’t here when I introduced our speaker, Dr. Jackson holds a research fellowship at London University.”
Mary, who had put on a pair of owlish glasses, too large for her small, pointed face, had been busy scribbling copious notes and fiddling with her recorder. Now she looked up and lifted a pen to attract attention. As she opened her mouth, Georgina recognized a fellow American, and a sixth sense told her that this one wasn’t going to ask how much she got as an advance for her second book.
“As a post-feminist writer—”
“As a what?”
“We’re all post-feminists now.”
“I’m not a post-anything. And, in general, I’m not too keen on
ism
s.”
“
Ism
s?”
“Feminism, modernism. Communism. Fascism.”
“What about fascism? Don’t you disapprove of fascism?”
“I mean I don’t care for words ending in
ism. Ism
s are trouble.
Ism
s are indicative of portmanteau thinking.”
“Would you care to elucidate on that?”
“Thoughts, opinions, ideas, all stuffed into a bag. As it were. Not assessed case by case. Not thought through from the root. Radically.”
“Do you consider yourself a radical writer?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Thank you, Mary,” said Joe.
Purple sweater shot her neighbour a withering glance, and asked about digital versions of
Magdalene Crib
. That started a lively debate and a heated discussion about copyright and royalties and free downloads.
Joe finally raised his voice. “I think we have time for one last question. As president, I’ll use my privilege to ask it. Tell me, Dr. Jackson, as a writer, you must have been influenced by Jane Austen. Which of her writings do you think has had the greatest impact on your own work?”
Georgina’s mind was a blank. At this moment, she couldn’t remember the title of a single one of the wretched woman’s novels.
“I couldn’t say it was one more than another. As a writer, one draws on so many sources, historical and contemporary, of which fiction is only one strand. So you could say, all of them.”
One thing she did know how to do was to conclude a session. “I’d like to thank you for asking me here this evening, and for providing such interesting and stimulating questions.”
Joe formally wound up the meeting, and then with easy courtesy
Similar Books
