Facts about fiction

Many may try, but only some writers can actually bring a world alive in their books

 

What can I say? I am a sucker for a good, old-fashioned Regency Romance, all tightly-laced corsets, heaving bosoms, swooning/sassy heroines, and a swashbuckling rakish hero who is eventually reformed by his love of a good woman. So far, so clichéd. But what brings these somewhat hackneyed plots alive is the skill of a great writer, who can create an entire universe in which you are only too willing to suspend your disbelief, let alone your cynicism.

 

You can imagine my excitement then, when I heard that a new series called Bridgerton was being released on Netflix. Set in Regency London and populated with a multicultural cast, this was based on a series of novels by Julia Quinn, recreating what will always be – to me, at least – the world of Georgette Heyer. 

 

So, I cleared my evening and settled down for some binge-watching. But half-way through the first episode I began to experience the first stirrings of dissatisfaction. And that only grew as I ploughed through the rest of the episodes. This was nothing like the Regency romps I had loved for most of my life.

 

Never mind, I told myself. This incarnation of Bridgerton owed more to Shonda Rhimes than it did to Julia Quinn. Maybe I should go to the original and get my fix of Regency-era drama. So, I downloaded The Duke and I, the novel on which the show is based, and settled down to read it in one greedy gulp.

 

At least, that was the intention. But to be honest with you, I found it heavy going. The plot was predictable, the dialogue was clunky, and the characters lacked a certain three-dimensional depth. It had all the tropes of Heyer’s Regency Romances but none of the sparkle and wit that makes Georgette’s books both effervescent and evergreen in their appeal. 

 

Just to confirm my initial impression, I went back to re-read my well-thumbed copies of Heyer’s best work. I started off with The Devil’s Cub, and within minutes I was entranced once again by the exploits of the Marquis of Vidal and his reluctant love interest, Mary Challoner, whose courtship has the most unpropitious of beginnings (she shoots him in the arm with his own pistol!).

 

Once I had started, there was no stopping me! I seamlessly went on to re-read The Grand Sophy and Venetia. I couldn’t find my copy of Regency Buck so I downloaded it on my Kindle and read it again, chuckling anew at the exploits of Judith Taverner and the Earl of Worth. And I am now immersed in The Infamous Army, a book that Heyer set around the battle of Waterloo, and which features Lord and Lady Worth, now a staid married couple, witnessing the star-crossed romance of their brother, Charles Audley with the audacious society beauty, Lady Barbara Childe. 

 

As I slipped effortlessly back into the universe of Georgette Heyer, it occurred to me that when it comes to genres of fiction, the world is divided into Masters of Their Game and The Rest of the Field. And no matter how hard The Rest may try, they can never measure up against The Masters. 

 

In spy fiction, for instance, there is the original Master, John le Carre, who made the Cold War his own, spinning fabulous tales revolving around the twin characters of George Smiley and the sinister Soviet spy, Karla. Since then, there have been many writers who have tried to recreate that universe, but no matter how good the books, they just don’t have the same appeal as Le Carre’s oeuvre. 

 

When it comes to murder mysteries, there is no bettering P.D. James. There is no better exemplar of British humour that P.G. Wodehouse. Nobody examines and elucidates the inner life of women better than Elena Ferrante. And nobody can write a cheery bonkbuster better than Jilly Cooper.

 

Part of their mastery lies in the fact that they make it all look so easy. It’s only when you see lesser writers trying to recreate their magic that you realize just how difficult it actually is. And that makes you appreciate their genius even more.

Laugh out loud

There are very few authors who can make you do that – so cherish the ones who do succeed

Sitting at my table for one as I waited for my lunch to be served, I slipped in my earphones and resumed listening to Meryl Streep reading that Nora Ephron classic, Heartburn. (Yes, I am happy to report that I have finally got the hang of audio books – but that’s a story for another day.) Before I knew it, my surroundings had slipped away and I was in Nora-world where her husband had fallen in love with an impossibly-tall person while she (Nora, not the girlfriend) was seven months pregnant. But while this may sound like tragedy to most of us (and it most assuredly was) Ephron managed to spin comedy gold out of the disaster that was the collapse of her marriage.

Which is how I found myself laughing out aloud at one of the (many) funny bits. And such was my absorption in the tale being told into my ears that it took me a while to realize that the people in the restaurant were looking at me funny as well. What on earth was a grown woman doing laughing uproariously into her Malaysian prawn curry? Aware that I probably looked certifiable I tried to compose myself. It lasted for about a couple of minutes. And then Meryl hissed into my ear about how her husband would even have sex with a Venetian blind, and I was in giggles yet again.

Finally I decided to just give in to the comic bits that would set me off regularly and laugh along with the narrative. After all, the other people in the restaurant had already written me off as a mad old bat, so what did I have to lose?

Besides how often do you get the privilege of reading (or listening to) a book that is genuinely laugh-out-loud funny? Not very often at all, I am afraid. So, when you finally hit upon one – or in my case, re-read it in a different format – then it makes sense to clamber on for a fun-filled ride, punctuated with giggles and chuckles, never mind if you are in public as you chortle away. You folks can keep your judgement. I am happy in my enjoyment.

As I drove back home, I began thinking of the other authors who have the knack of making us laugh out loud like Nora Ephron had managed to do with me that afternoon. The first name that popped into my head was that old childhood favourite, P.G. Wodehouse. My mind flashed back to all the many summer holidays spent devouring the entire Castle of Blandings oeuvre, giggling over the antics of the Earl of Emsworth and his prize-winning pig called, appropriately enough, the Empress of Blandings, and the ever-efficient Baxter, his private secretary, and the whole host of supporting characters who populate his whimsical plots. Once I had swallowed this whole series whole, I had moved on to the Jeeves and Wooster omnibus, which kept me whooping with laughter yet again as I navigated the world of the doltish Bertie Wooster and his ever-resourceful and masterful manservant Jeeves.

My teenage years were also when I discovered another of my favourite comic writers. I know that most people think of Georgette Heyer as a romantic novelist because she is best known for her ‘Regency Romances’. But what most people who haven’t read her don’t realize is that she is also a dab hand at comedy. Her convoluted plots provide enough space to slot in comic bits and Heyer does a great job at working them in seamlessly. If you want to see Heyer at her comic best, read The Grand Sophy, The Talisman Ring, Cotillion. Or actually, read any of her ‘romances’. Laughing out loud comes with the territory.

Gerald Durrell was another author who kept me in whoops in my growing-up years. There was a time in my life when I used to re-read My Family And Other Animals once every year just so that I could laugh at the antics of the Durrell household as they navigated life on the island of Corfu. Last year, I went back and revisited the Durrells, wondering if they would amuse the adult me just as much. And the short answer is: yes, they could – and they did. 

More recently, it is the books of some female comics which have got me cackling loudly as I read them. Mindy Kaling’s self-deprecatory humour in Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me had me chuckling along half in recognition and half in appreciation. Tina Fey’s Bossypants did the same trick as did Miranda Hart’s Is It Just Me? And Caitlin Moran’s How To Be A Woman should come with a warning that you might embarrass yourself reading it in public – as I did. (Yes, yes, I know, there are plenty of male comics out there who are just as funny. But what can I tell you? The funny bone wants what it wants. And in my case, it wants the female voice.)

I am sure that there are plenty of other hilariously-funny authors out there that I am missing out on. If there are any that make you embarrass yourself in public as you laugh out loud while reading, please share their names with me. And I promise, in short order, to share your embarrassment.

Chapter and verse

If you love bookshops, do your bit to keep them alive

I have always believed that you can tell a great city from the fact that it has some great book stores. New York has Barnes and Noble, a ginormous space on 5th Avenue where you could easily get lost as you made your way from the new releases to the classics section. Singapore has the best Kinokuniya I have ever been to, stacked with every book you've heard of or wanted to read (and then some). London has its hallowed Hatchards, a book store positively bristling with history, redolent of the heady smell of paper, and filled to the brim with titles both new and old.

Some of my best holiday moments are spent in such book stores. I could easily spend the better part of the day simply browsing the aisles, picking up an old book of poetry I last read in college to see if it still speaks to me, glancing through the first chapter of the new book by a favourite author, discovering new writers as I trawl through all the titles on display.

So it was only fitting that the last day of my summer vacation found me in the Piccadilly branch of Waterstones. This is one of my favourite stores, not least because it encourages its staff to put up little handwritten recommendation cards about the books that they have enjoyed (and you might conceivable like), but also because it has these capacious red sofas on every floor, where you can sit and read the day away without anyone coming and bothering you or asking if you actually intend to buy anything.

I always start my visit by revisiting my childhood favourites, all those Enid Blytons that I devoured hungrily the moment I got them out of the school library. I chuckle at the adventures of the Five Find-Outers or the Famous Five. I giggle with fond reminiscence as I glance through the Mallory Towers series. I delight at stumbling across such childhood reading staples as The Black Beauty (which I knew by heart at one point).

Then it's time to pay my respects to the books that marked my teenage years and early youth, now reissued with ever-more-fabulous covers. P.G. Wodehouse gets a look-in as does Georgette Heyer. I am, in fact, sorely tempted to buy the books all over again simply because they look so beautiful and elegant (talk about buying a book by its cover!) but manage to resist the temptation by sheer force of will.

I distract myself by going over to the suspense and thriller section where all my favourite authors live. And if I can find a Val McDermid or a Karen Slaughter I haven't yet read, it goes right into my little cart. Only then do I wander over to the new releases to check if there is anything worth getting my teeth into on the flight back home. Yes, I was disappointed by the last Daniel Silva, but maybe the new one, The English Spy, will make me remember why I fell in love with his writing in the first place.

This time, however, as I stood at the till, waiting to pay for my purchases, I noticed something odd. Though the store was positively heaving with customers, everyone was browsing but hardly anyone was buying. Ah yes, of course. The book store was just a place where people stopped by to draw up their wish list. They then went home and ordered the books online, saving about 20 to 30 per cent in the process. Or even better, they downloaded it on their Kindles, so that they could carry around as many as 20 titles at a time.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against buying books online, though I have yet to do so myself. And I do read my books on Kindle as well, especially when I am travelling and need to save on luggage space and stay within weight restrictions. But it kills me a little to see people exiting a book store without having bought even the cheapest paperback.

Think about it. If we all behave in this way, treating the book store as a pit-stop on the way to making an electronic purchase (or download), how long do you think the actual physical bookshop will survive? How long will independent book stores with razor-thin margins manage to stay in business? And even large commercial chains will have to reexamine if they want to stay in brick-and-mortar locations when most book buying takes place online.

If this trend continues, it is only a matter of time before the bookshop begins to wither and die away. And when the last one closes its doors, where will all of us, dedicated book lovers, go to get our fix of that heady perfume of paper and the printed word?

If that scenario alarms you as much as it does me, then let's take a pledge this Sunday morning. If you love books and reading, then make a resolution to buy at least one book from a book shop every month. It doesn't have to be a pricey hardback, even the cheapest paperback will do, so long as you buy it from an actual book store.

It won't make that big a dent in your budget, but for book shops everywhere it could well mean the difference between life and death.