Jane Goes Batty

She had read the review so many times that she had memorized it. Still, there was something about seeing it in its original form that made revisiting it even more painful. As she read the words Jane mouthed them silently. She flew through the opening paragraphs quickly, slowing when she reached the heart of the post.

Jane Fairfax’s Constance is not the worst of the recent novels to unabashedly borrow from Austen, but it is arguably the most disappointing, for it contains a hint of its inspiration’s charm and wit but smothers it in a heavy sauce that leaves a bitter taste in the reader’s mouth. Where Austen is light and gay, Fairfax is dark and broody. Her characters are interesting, to be sure, but they seem intent on unhappiness. Constance is predisposed to sulkiness, and even when she finds love with Charles she seems restless and unfulfilled. One can almost imagine her happier with the brutish Jonathan, who at least exhibits some amount of passion, however twisted it might be. Ultimately one is left with the impression this is the novel Austen might have written following a blow to the heart. Or possibly the head.

Jane shut the window and leaned back in her chair. Not for the first time since stumbling across the site (damn Google and its ability to ferret out every last mention of her and her book) she considered writing the author a note. But she knew that would end poorly. Kelly had told her—and she’d soon found that he was quite right—not to read everything written about her. Unlike the past, when critics were allowed to criticize because they knew something about books and writing, the invention of the Internet made it possible for anyone with an opinion to share it. This was not, as far as Jane was concerned, a good thing.

She had to admit, however, that despite her relentlessly snarky tone the blog’s author was not stupid. Her name was Wen Bao, and if her biography was to be believed, she was thirty-three and lived in Fargo, North Dakota. What she did there was unclear, but Jane liked to imagine that she worked some dreary minimum-wage job simply in order to afford the books about which she wrote. As an ear piercer in a mall, perhaps, or a gift shop clerk at the Roger Maris Museum.

This was unkind of her, Jane knew, but it allowed her to not dislike Wen Bao as much as she might otherwise. She had disliked her upon first encountering the blog. That was only natural given her maternal feelings toward Constance. But after a few days (or perhaps it was weeks, or months) she had been able to read the post with a little more objectivity, and when she did so she was able to see that what Wen Bao had so succinctly stated were the very fears she herself had about her novel.

No, not fears. Truths. For she knew—had always known—that this novel was different from her others. But that was because she herself was changed. She had written Constance in a fever brought on by her infatuation with Byron. Their correspondence had awakened things in her, and these feelings found their way into her pen. Constance was, after all, her love letter to him. It was only natural that some of his infamous melancholy should color it.

And then there was what happened at Lake Geneva.

“They can hardly expect me to remain myself,” Jane told Jasper. “Not after that. And yet they don’t want me to change. They like me the way I am. Was. Not that they even know that I’m me. Still, it hardly seems fair to expect a woman to stand absolutely still for two hundred years. I’m not Jane Austen any longer, at least not their Jane Austen.”

She’d seen this before. She remembered when Amy Heckerling had borrowed liberally from Emma in creating her movie Clueless. A certain segment of Jane’s readership had cried foul, going so far as to say that Jane would be scandalized by what had been done to her novel.

“But I rather liked it,” said Jane as Jasper got up and padded out of the room. “How are they to know what I would and would not like, anyway? It’s not as if they know me. Really, knowing a writer through that writer’s books is about as likely as understanding the inner workings of a clock by listening to its chime.”

Still, she had fooled a great number of people. More than one critic had compared Constance favorably to her previous books. But not Wen Bao, Jane thought. She saw through me.

It occurred to her now—and she was positively astonished that it hadn’t already—that perhaps the change in tone of Constance was what had caused the novel to be rejected so many times. Her earlier novels had brought into popularity a certain kind of story, one that Constance was not. Well, not completely, but enough that it was troubling to editors. At least for the first twenty or so years, Jane thought. I can only assume that later editors simply hated it. Until Kelly.

The phone rang. Jane, glancing at the clock, saw that it was after eleven. Who’s calling at this hour? she wondered as she picked up.

“I hope it’s not too late.” Kelly said.

“No,” said Jane, suddenly seized with a panic that he was calling to ask about the undelivered manuscript. She tapped her fingers on the keyboard loudly. “I’m just writing.”

“Good,” Kelly replied. “Because that’s why I’m calling.”

Jane’s anxiety doubled. “It’s coming along very well now,” she said. “I’ve had a breakthrough. I think I can have it to you before Labor—”

“I’m not checking up on you,” interrupted Kelly.

Jane hesitated. “You’re not?” she asked.

“Do you really think I’d call you this late to see how the book is coming along?” Kelly said.

“Well …” Jane said slowly. “You did say you were calling about the book.”

“I did,” Kelly agreed. “But it’s not about when it will be finished. That will be up to your new editor to worry about.”

Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Then Kelly’s words sank in. “My new editor?” she said.

“That’s the big news,” said Kelly. “I’ve got a new position. I’m going to be an agent at Waters-Harding. Actually, I’m going to be your new agent. I made that part of the deal.”

Jane was at a loss for words. “Congratulations,” she managed.

“You don’t sound very excited,” said Kelly.

“Oh, I am,” Jane said. “Very excited. It’s just that I didn’t know you were looking to leave editing.”

“I wasn’t, really,” said Kelly. “But last week I had a meeting with Knut Amundsen about another author they represent and out of the blue he asked if I’d ever considered being an agent. I guess he was impressed with my negotiating skills. I said I hadn’t given it much thought, and he said I should. Then he offered me a job.”

“That really is wonderful,” Jane told him, her composure regained. “I know you’ll be a wonderful agent.” She paused a moment so as not to appear anxious. “So who will my new editor be?”

“A wonderful young woman,” Kelly said. “Jessica Abernathy. She comes from Fourth Street Books. She adores Constance. Didn’t stop raving about it the whole interview.”

“Jessica Abernathy,” Jane said. The name was familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“She’s young,” Kelly continued. “But she’s edited some really good books. I really think you’ll—”

“Jessica Abernathy!” Jane exclaimed. “Of Fourth Street Books?”

“Yes,” said Kelly. “Do you know her?”

Indeed I do, Jane thought. She’s number 116.

“No,” she said, trying to calm herself. “I must have seen her name somewhere.” As in on her rejection letter, she fumed. Adores Constance my foot. I’m sure she said it just to get the job.

But she couldn’t tell Kelly that. It would seem petty of her. Besides, it was possible Jessica Abernathy had never even read Jane’s manuscript. She could have just rejected it out of hand, then not recognized it when she read the finished product.

It will be all right, she told herself. You can handle this.

“When do you start?” she asked Kelly.

“Two weeks,” Kelly replied. “Then I’ll be your agent. We’ll get you a much better deal than the one you got last time.” He laughed at his little joke.