My Name was Supposed to be Elizabeth Ann

At a recent online book club meeting, after we’d discussed Remarkably Bright Creatures but before deciding on titles for the fall, the group’s moderator—a friend of mine from college—raised the issue of character versus plot driven books, which type we preferred and which authors we believed “better” at it, which led us to chat about classic literature–meaning, the ones we’d studied in college– and how authors of Western canonical texts seemed more focused on “big ideas” than people. Their themes, she said, seemed both the construct of and rationale for their narratives’ unfolding.

You’re the English teacher, Michele, she said. Why do you think that is?

Uhhh…

Mid-answer, our Zoom session abruptly ended. 

Conversation trumps diatribe every single time. 

In literature as in life, WHO tells the story is as important to understanding its meaning as is HOW, WHEN, and WHY authors and characters tell their stories the way that they do. 

Historians would agree. So would children. Just ask any kid trying to wheedle permission from a reluctant parental. 

Perspective matters. So does audience. 

Ever read Life of Pi? A writers-blocked author’s quest for a story idea frames the wondrous first-person tale of Piscine Patel, who as a young man survives a shipwreck that kills his immediate family and nearly everyone else on board. In one story Pi tells, “everyone else” means an orangutan, a zebra, a hyena, and a Bengal tiger named Richard Parker. When insurance agents challenge that version, he tells another story, wherein animals become metaphors for human survivors and his own base nature.

Which version of events do you prefer? Which version of events do you believe?

Answers to those questions in no way change the “facts” of his survival. However, they reveal oceans about you, the reader.

Consider Gone Girl’s Nick. I bet your interpretation of his character changes  once Amy “returns” from the dead. I bet your interpretation of hers changes, as well, once you “meet” her in first person. 

What about The Handmaid’s Tale, also first POV? When Offred steps into the dark van, is she headed to freedom or death? Readers speculated for over 30 years until its much-anticipated sequel, The Testaments, was released in 2019. Were you vindicated? Mistaken? Duped? How do the sequel’s new voices color your understanding of Offred’s, and how has YOUR life and worldview changed since meeting her?

Yes, the first person narrator is a puzzle and an imp. Frequently–but not always–unreliable. I’m thinking specifically of The Kite Runner’s Amir, who reveals his flaws rather than excuses them. Initially to make himself feel better, but ultimately to atone for his mistakes, to address the harm his actions cause the innocent Sohrab. It’s like he realizes we can’t avoid repeating his mistakes unless he reveals the darkest, ugliest parts of his soul.

Perspective matters. So does audience. 

What do you think Huck thinks about James?

That’s why I love dual and multiple timeline stories, dual and multiple POV narratives, because no one’s story belongs solely to the individual. 

Protagonists in Kate Morton’s novels never resolve their present-day conflicts until they confront those initiated by people and events long-buried. The protagonist of Anne Berest’s The Postcard  must do the same.

Cold Mountain belongs to Ada AND Inman. You can’t understand why he comes back without understanding why she stays.

Annie dies on page one of After Annie, yet she is the lodestar by which her daughter, husband, and best friend navigate their grief, each journey as unique as their relationships.

A giant redwood and a New England cabin are central characters in The Overstory and North Woods, respectively. Their arcs are revealed over centuries, through dozens of interactions with dozens of human characters, most of whom remain ignorant of their connections and the scope of their influences. Readers, know, however, because of their authors’ deft storytelling.

And let’s not forget the brilliant symphony that is Girl, Woman, Other. Twelve different women, twelve seemingly disparate melodies. And then… the volta midway through the novel when suddenly, naturally, everything harmonizes.

Literary critics might quibble with my definition, but I consider those narrative structures modern iterations of the traditional Western literary canon’s omniscient voice. You know, that all-seeing, all-knowing god-like narrator who’s going to tell us like it is. Going to tell us THE TRUTH. 

Usually–eh-hem–that voice belonged to a certain kind of narrator, with a certain kind of educational, cultural, and ethnic background similar to its author’s. 

In grad school, we used to call them DWEMs.* 

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love quite a bit of DWEM canonical literature. I on-purpose enrolled in three separate Shakespeare seminars, I have devoured nearly everything by Dickens and Hardy, I find Strindberg’s plays oddly compelling, and Blake and Frost are two of my favorite, favorite poets.

Yet.

For two years after earning my Master’s in English Lit, I strived to read primarily women writers and writers of color. International writers and writers whose worldviews and experiences were foreign to my own. Some of them I absolutely hated. Some of them I absolutely loved.

I appreciated all of them, however, because they illuminated this valuable perspective: 

Conversation trumps diatribe every single time.

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To paraphrase Thomas C. Foster in How To Read Literature Like a Professor, every story ever told is actually a variant of only one story–the story of what it means to be human. 

When Zoom restarted, I finished my micro-summary of literary history, how stories used to venerate the gods and their mortal stand-ins, how narrative structure and voice have changed (in part) because our world has changed–because our experiences of what it means to be human have changed. 

Story, therefore, is a means through which we can discern others’ worldviews and values in other places and times. Through which we can maybe–maybe–discern our own more clearly by comparing and sharing our understandings.

If we listen, and if we are listened to. If we welcome those conversations.

Some critics argue that contemporary narrative structures reflect cultural fragmentation–that stories are cobbled from pieces because we are in pieces. Others suggest their complex constructions reflect our increasingly complex (and complicated) daily lives.

I think both explanations are valid, but I also think such stories highlight our yearning to connect. Our need to feel like we are part of something bigger, something communal, that first POV can’t quite pull off. I think that’s part of the reason why The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store resonates–not despite the fact of its many, many characters, but BECAUSE of them. At least, that was my book club’s consensus, about McBride’s book and about Creatures, even though Creatures is partly narrated by an octopus.

Perspective matters. So does audience. And in real life, as in literature, no one’s story belongs solely to the individual. 

I liken contemporary writers’ multiple POVs and timelines to the classical Greek Chorus. Remember how they trod onstage and commented on everything the tragic hero did and should have done instead? Remember how the hero always ignored the Chorus’ insights, because the hero always thought he knew better?

If only those arrogant bastards would have listened to each other, perhaps tragedy could have been averted.

Truth.

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If you haven’t already, check out some of these terrific reads I mentioned in this post. I’d love to hear your thoughts and recommendations:

Remarkably Bright Creatures (Shelby Van Pelt)

 Life of Pi (Yann Martel)

Gone Girl (Gillian Flynn)

The Handmaid’s Tale & The Testaments (Margaret Atwood)

The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini)

James (Percival Everett)

Kate Morton (I’ve read all her books, but my favorite is The Clockmaker’s Daughter.)

The Postcard (Anne Berest)

Cold Mountain (Charles Frazier)

After Annie (Anna Quindlen)

The Overstory (Richard Powers)

North Woods (Daniel Mason)

Girl, Woman, Other (Bernardine Evaristo)

How To Read Literature Like a Professor (Thomas C. Foster)

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*Dead White European Men, in case you were wondering

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Reading Challenge Update:

As of Wednesday, I’ve read 72 books toward my 2024 goal of 100.

I’m also about midway through Judi Dench’s SHAKESPEARE: The Man Who Pays the Rent and 60-some pages into The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates, which has been in my TBR pile FOREVER. 

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Next up on MY NAME WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ELIZABETH ANN–

I have no clue! I’m working on several different pieces and haven’t yet decided. I’m as curious as you are to find out, lol 😉

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Thanks for reading!!