I read this story by Ben Marcus on the way home from the city. I don’t really like short stories all that much, but I loved this one. In part because it was like a novel in a nutshell. Partly because I felt tense the entire time I was reading it. I also thought that the details had god in them; the narration so assured I did’t need to worry. And most of all it felt real.
THE RESULTS ARE IN
AUTHOR OF THE BARTER
Siobhan Adcock weights in
#1
Lyra’s pick:
What a beautiful and frankly terrifying evocation of how scary books work on you, in the dark hours of the night. The vampires in the pecan tree–totally unforgettable, and I know exactly the feeling she’s talking about. To paraphrase Stephen King himself, I never in my life freaked myself out reading like I did when I was 13…does anyone?
#2
Jude’s pick:
I love Jude’s point that the scariest books aren’t always tales of terror or even ghost stories. The most chilling moment for me in that book is when Merle says icily, “Please be careful with that precious object.” Yeeesh. Henry James had a way with dark corners: I read and re-read The Turn of the Screw many times when I was writing The Barter.
#3
Amy’s pick:
Please, please, please tell me that this didn’t really happen or I might never sleep again.
Please send your snail mail address to betsy@dclagency.com for your copy of THE BARTER. And thanks to everyone for participating. And thanks to Siobhan!
TWO MORE DAYS LEFT to win a copy of THE BARTERby Siobhan Adcock. What was the scariest book you’ve ever read and why? Giving away first, second and third prizes.
When writers tell me that they are writing for an audience, I always want ask: who? Like really, when you are physically writing or for that matter when you are writing in your head, are you thinking of readers? Is it general: people browsing at Barnes & Noble they way you cruise a buffet table. Or specific: For Aunt Sue, Uncle Wiggly? The people in church or on line at the Genius Bar? What about the people in the second to last car of the Amtrak train traveling from Virginia to Maine? And what of writing for yourself? The immature man in the mirror. The ingrown toe nail. All the strands of hair you violently pulled from your brush the morning of your wedding day. Are you the small man running in brown leather shoes down a path softened by dead leaves? Or squeezing an apricot not quite ripe that you still slice open and greedily eat?
Back when I was a mushroom getting my MFA, there was a woman in my workshop who dazzled. She wasn’t taller than everyone, she only seemed that way. I have had the great privilege of working with Jean Zimmerman as her editor first, now as her agent, and always her friend. Her dazzling historical novel, SAVAGE GIRL, has just been published by Viking to great early acclaim.
CONTEST: Who is your favorite bad guy (in literature) and why? I’ll ask Jean to judge the answers and top three answers will win a copy of Savage Girl.
Sooner or later, a historical crime novel is bound to drag you down some dark alley and into the nastiest, most lawless precincts of the period. Jean Zimmerman followed this tradition in her first novel, “The Orphanmaster,” a descent into the hellish criminal haunts of 17th-century New Amsterdam. In SAVAGE GIRL (Viking, $27.95), this canny author puts all that aside and turns to the Gilded Age for a sweeping narrative, set within the cloistered ranks of high society in 19th-century Manhattan, that raises touchy questions about what it means to be civilized.
Even in this exclusive world, the Delegate family is more privileged than most. The paterfamilias, Friedrich-August-Heinrich (also known as Freddy), has taken his family and a retinue of servants on his private, sumptuously appointed 12-car railroad train to Virginia City, Nev., to visit the silver mine that’s boosting his already considerable fortune. But when the Delegates depart from this brawling Wild West boom town, they have an additional passenger, a beautiful, feral young woman from a land that’s “savage, wild, forsaken by God and man” — who’s said to have been raised by wolves. Found at a sideshow, she’ll be the ideal experimental subject, Freddy thinks, for the nature-or-nurture debate roiling his intellectual set.
Photo
Credit Christoph Niemann
Using Freddy’s intelligent but decidedly peculiar son Hugo as narrator adds another layer of suspense to the story. A student of anatomy at Harvard, this young man has an unhealthy fondness for knives and a vivid imagination when it comes to Bronwyn, as the “Savij Girl” comes to be known. But who’s to say where imagination leaves off and obsession takes over, once the family is back in its Fifth Avenue mansion and the “Pygmalion”-like process of civilizing Bronwyn (who keeps her own set of razor-like steel claws and creeps out of the house to visit the wild animals at the zoo) begins in earnest.
The wondrous sights Zimmerman rolls out for us — a picnic on the banks of the Great Salt Lake, a stopover at the “fabulous, glorious” Palmer House hotel in Chicago and visits to mansions up and down the East Coast — are all the more piquant when Bronwyn’s admirers begin turning up, cut to ribbons, at almost every whistle stop. If this is civilization, bring on the wolves.
‘My Fair Lady’ Meets ‘Psycho’: PW Talks with Jean Zimmerman
A feral child unsettles Gilded Age New York City in Jean Zimmerman’s Savage Girl.
How did the book come to be?
I’d always wanted to write about a wolf girl—that is, one afflicted with the genetic condition known as hypertrichosis, which causes a person to resemble an animal, with fur growing all over his or her body. Many children with the condition were exhibited in American sideshows in an earlier period. Related in my mind was the phenomenon of so-called feral children, a girl or a boy purported to be raised by wolves (or by bears, or big cats, or goats, or, in one reported case, by rats). I ultimately crashed these two ideas together in Savage Girl.
What did the murder plot add?
A random killing here and there really focuses a narrative. We don’t know who is committing the murders in Savage Girl, but indications point to Bronwyn—and with good reason. The historical record shows that feral children were prone to violent outbursts.
You often write about the status of women. Was there something in particular about the women of the Gilded Age that intrigued you?
I found the debutante to be a fascinating creature and the coming out process one that was as constricting as it was lovely. Here were the grand dames of society, banding together when a girl reached the age of 18 or so, helping to usher her into a new social status. There was some power in the process for women. The learning curve was steep. There were new gowns and dance lessons, teas, ritualized social visits, and grand balls. The fashions were extraordinary. Yet debuting was filled with the strictest rules and obligations, and if you failed, there was the threat of punishment—remaining a spinster. I wanted to search beneath the opaque surface of the debuting process to find deeper meanings. That meant talking about both corsets and bloomers.
“Zimmerman’s dark comedy of manners is an obvious homage to Edith Wharton, a rip-roaring murder mystery more Robert Louis Stevenson than Conan Doyle and a wonderfully detailed portrait of the political, economic and philosophical issues driving post–Civil War America.” –KIRKUS
A professional acquaintance asked me to look at a novel a few weeks ago. Sure, I chirped. Ug, I thought. The novel began with an author’s note that I think was meant to create an air of mystery. It said the story might be true, or it might not. My reaction to the note: who gives a shit? I mean, it’s work of fiction, right? If you want to tell me it’s based on a true story, tell me. If you say it’s all made up, I automatically think it’s not.What is your expectation when you read a novel. My feeling is that whether it’s actually true or not, its first obligation is to feel true, even if it’s science fiction, maybe especially if it’s science fiction. The world you enter whether it’s the ped next door or the inner ear, it has to feel fuckin real. Why did that note strike me as so…obnox? I’m sure it had everything to do with the tone, but it really got me thinking about fiction (I mostly represent non-fiction). I do find it amazing that we, as humans, want to read made up stories and the reason we want to read them, at least in part, is because they seem true.
You went all diatribal on the subject of women’s fiction the other day. What’s up with that? Women’s fiction is just fiction with female main characters. Since men won’t read books about women, unless they’re bimbos, Bond girls, or butt kickers, what else are you going to call books that talk about the lives of the statistical majority of the population?
You called it “Kotex fiction.” So do you hate your own gender?
I’ll go sit in the back now and put on my shit shield. Reading your blog is kinda like going to see Gallagher’s evil twin.
–Name withheld
I always wanted to be someone’s evil twin (Shana? Vivian?), but who is Gallagher?
This is a very serious subject and I do not want to treat it glibly. I’m a feminist. And I love my vag. But I hate the term “women’s fiction” and I hate its evil twin “chick lit.” When my publisher put a pink jacket on my paperback, I wanted to fuckin’ forget the whole thing. It’s not just work with female main characters. There are a million other implications for a book that is called women’s fiction, but the most important one is that it isn’t taken seriously. Toni Morrison doesn’t write women’s fiction. Nor does Lorrie Moore. Or Marilyn Robinson. I know that it’s marketing. I know that it’s publishing. I understand. It’s the air that I breathe. All I’m saying is that I don’t like it. I don’t like query letters that pitch women’s fiction. Or chick lit. I think it’s demeaning. Just say fiction, or literary fiction, or crime fiction in the tradition of Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, and Janet Evanovich. I’ll pick up on the cues.
I love SheWrites. I love Jezebel. I love A Page of One’s own. I love Smith College. And girls’ night out. And Frances McDormand. I love all organizations that help women. But I want to read fiction, and go hear rock and roll, and see art. Not women’s fiction, women’s rock and roll, and women’s art. I have an allergic reaction and I don’t think it’s because I hate myself (and while I do hate myself it’s not for being a slit). I think it’s because I want the nomenclature to reflect parity. You never go to a all male rock show. Male impressionists. Men’s fiction.
I’m sure I haven’t thought deeply enough on all this. And I’m sorry if I went off half cocked (get it?!) the other day. I really want to know what you all think about this “women’s fiction” label. Does it help? Hurt? Matter?
(And if this letter is from the person I offended — I do apologize. I was raised better, though you couldn’t tell from this blog. I’m sorry and thanks for the great question.)