Jane Bites Back_ A Novel - Michael Thomas Ford [55]
“Oh, it’s just a particular peeve of mine. Whenever I mention that I like certain novels, someone has to say something snide about how although they may be popular, they aren’t real novels. It’s stupid. Then they get all put out when I remind them that some of the books we consider classics today were considered popular fiction in their time. Dickens, for instance. Even Austen.”
Jane felt herself tense up, but Walter didn’t seem to notice. He continued talking. “Where are all the ‘literary’ novels from that period?” he asked, using his fingers to emphasize the quotes. “And what about Trollope? His Barchester books are basically soap operas, yet today they’re considered great English novels. And do you know what the critics of his time said about him? They said that his work couldn’t be taken seriously because he wrote too much and admitted that he wrote for money. Like authors are supposed to languish in drafty garrets waiting for inspiration to strike.”
Jane didn’t know what to say. Of course she did know what the critics had said about Trollope. She had been outraged when the man’s delightful books had been so cruelly treated. She herself had weathered some terrible notices. But nobody remembered those now save for some academics who insisted on recording every tiny thing about a person’s life. What people remembered was that her books were read and that they were enjoyable.
“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” she told Walter. “I do like Gossford’s books. I suppose I’m just afraid I won’t be taken seriously.”
“I take you seriously,” said Walter. “Your friends take you seriously. Do you honestly care what some critic who doesn’t even know you thinks?”
Jane thought for a moment. “Well, yes,” she said. “I’m afraid I do. Oh, I know it’s shallow of me, but I can’t help it. I do care, Walter. This is my first novel. I want people to love it as much as I do.”
“Well, so far no one has said a bad thing about it,” Walter reminded her. “I’m sure someone will—”
“Thank you,” Jane interrupted. “That makes me feel immensely better.”
“But they’ll be wrong,” Walter concluded. “You just have to remember that.”
She knew what he said was true. It was, however, difficult to keep herself from looking to see what was being said about her book. In addition to the reviews Kelly sent her, she had taken to looking herself up on the Internet. As the book was only available as a review copy, there was not a lot she hadn’t seen, but she had found a handful of blogs and such in which she was mentioned. As with the reviews, most of the things written about her were positive, although a couple had been less than flattering.
One in particular continued to bother her. It was a blog called the Constant Reader. The writer was Violet Grey, the Brontë scholar, and she apparently fancied herself an expert on what she referred to as “novels of the heart.” She had recently posted an item about Constance—which she admitted to not yet having read—in which she made snide comments about Jane’s author photo and expressed doubt that “a woman with such a bland face could pen something filled with passion.” In a fit of pique Jane had left an indignant comment (anonymously, of course) on the post, suggesting that Miss Grey confine her remarks to the work at hand. She had not received a reply.
“What do you want to do on the big day?” Walter asked, drawing her back to the moment.
“Big day?” said Jane, trying to remember if she’d forgotten an imminent birthday or holiday.
“The day your book comes out,” Walter explained. “We should do something to celebrate.”
“I haven’t thought about it,” said Jane. “I suppose we could make a display in the window.”
“I don’t mean at the store,” Walter said. “I mean what do you want to do?”
“Let me think about it,” Jane told him. “I may be all booked out by that point.”
“You’d better not be,” said Walter. “This is just the beginning.”
“You sound like Kelly,” Jane said. “He said almost the same thing to me this morning.”
“He’s right. You’re going to be a star. I just know it.”
Something in his voice troubled