i have long-since wanted to write a novel entirely composed of letters, though i've struggled with how to accomplish this. my few feeble attempts have proven that desire is a weak impetus and a love of form is hardly an excuse to butcher it with a bad idea. that said, i was sent the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society by a friend who claimed it would be a wonderful 'pick-me-up' sort of read. in that, i cannot say she was wrong.
it is, of course, an epistolary. it is not a deep epistolary--not something that would keep you awake at night with its soul-wrenching insight--but it is certainly well done. the characters have such distinctive, vivid voices and the letters take on such an unabashedly confident and sincere tone, that a romantic such as myself cannot help but become wrapped up in the mild dramas and daily victories of each character. i cannot say the story is entirely believable from a standard plot point of view, but i can say that the inhabitants are believable--that they shine as real and realistic--and that is the hallmark of the good letter-novel. after all, if one cannot learn to love the characters, one cannot be convinced to read their letters. this, i think, is even true outside of the book's pages.
i finished the novel, perhaps last week? i do not want to belittle it with a lax review, but nor do i want to trump it up as a must-read. all i can say is that i enjoyed it, and thoroughly. it begins in january 1946, just as the war is ending (and those of you who know me understand that i am already biased to accept stories in this time period), and follows the exploits of a writer looking for her (yes, her) next story. at its heart, it's a romance--both in regards to the modern connotations associated with that genre and in the more traditional, nature-loving definition. i say this to warn those of you who haven't the patience for such nonsense, or to welcome those of you who pretend no patience but read these books in the quiet, hiding them away behind more important titles on your bookshelves.
i will say more of the book tomorrow, or the next day, but for now i will leave you with a mild recommendation to pick it up in the book store, read the first letter, and decide from there. or allow me to practice my typing by giving you a sample:
dear sidney,
susan scott is a wonder. we sold over forty copies of the book, which was very pleasant, but much more thrilling from my standpoint was the food. susan managed to procure ration coupons for icing sugar and real eggs for the meringue. if all her literary luncheons are going to achieve these heights, i won't mind touring about the country. do you suppose that a lavish bonus could spur her on to butter? let's try it--you may deduct the money from my royalties.
now for my grim news. you asked me how work on my new book is progressing. sidney, it isn't.
english foibles seemed so promising at first. after all, one should be able to write reams about the society to protest the glorificatioon of the english bunny. i unearthed a photograph of the vermin exterminators' trade union, marching down an oxford street with placards screaming 'down with beatrix potter.' but what is there to write about after a caption? nothing, that's what.
i no longer want to write this book--my head and my heart just aren't in it. dear as izzy bickerstaff is--and was--to me, i don't want to write anything else under that name. i don't want to be considered a light-hearted journalist anymore. i do acknowledge that making readers laugh--or at least chuckle--during the war was no mean feat, but i don't want to do it anymore. i can't seem to dredge up any sense of proportion or balance these days, and god knows one cannot write humor without them.
in the meantime, i am very happy stephens and stark is making money on izzy bickerstaff goes to war. it relieves my conscience over the debacle of my anne bronte biography.
my thanks for everything and love,
juliet
p.s. i am reading the collected correspondence of mrs. montagu. do you know what that dismal woman wrote to jane carlyle? 'my dear little jane, everybody is born with a vocation, and yours is to write charming little notes.' i hope jane spat on her. (shaffer 3-4)
i think her post scripts are tremendous fun. haha.
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