An Austen Intervention

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a reader in possession of… any-sized fortune really, must be in want of a book.

There's much ado in my household with regard to debuting just now because my first novel, girlchild, goes on shelves this week. With girlchild being a debutante in her first season, I cannot get my mind off of Jane Austen, her work having taught me what little I know of debutantes and seasons, particularly from Pride and Prejudice. As I prepare to leave go of my little girl's hand and watch her waltz off into the world, I'm glad I brought my smelling salts. It is a swoon-y time. The parties! The gossip! The dresses!

girlchild's official launch party (might we call it a ball?) is Saturday night and she's already fussed over her dress. The jacket turned out beautifully, it hugs her in all the right places and is adorned with blurbs (sequins perhaps?) that make me blush. As the reviews come in, there is much gossip, a great requirement of any good society function. girlchild's dance card is filling up, at least according to its Amazon ranking, and much as I disbelieved Chris Baty when he told me I'd become addicted to monitoring that statistic, I do have it on speed dial. (I'm told another angel gets his Viking helmet every time Baty is right about something, and that guy is always right. I'm so glad he's gone.)

Parties, check! Gossip, check! Dress, check! So, why am I so nervous?

Dear me! Have I become Mrs. Bennet? No faith in my progeny, chewing with my mouth open, and forcing my dearest on whoever doesn't already have a book in his hand? Or, can we fault Mrs. Bennet (that is, me) for her awareness of the limited choices facing her girl children and a desire to see them held and loved and secure in this digitized world?

I never hoped to see myself as Mrs. B.

But here I am, nose to the embroidery hoop, where I've stitched this blog sampler, pretending not to worry and failing miserably. When no one's looking, I'm wiping the dirt from her face with my spit, straightening her jacket, pinching her cheeks to add color, and shoving her onto the dance floor. I acquiesce to fate. I wanted to be Elizabeth, I dreamt of being sweet Jane, but here I am, Mrs. Bennet, uncouth, uncertain, and only focused on seeing that my darling gets to dance all night.

If I'm Mrs. B when it comes to introducing my work to the world, who are you? What literary character best illustrates your feelings about your writing? Do you hoard it, like Gollum, eyes wide and jealous? Do you cobble your story together during the lightning flashes and scare the villagers with it? Do you fly it like the kite in Mary Poppins? Are there any other Mrs. Bennets out there?

Whoever you are, may all of your darling precious monsters fly to the highest heights of your imagination.

– Tupelo (aka Mrs. B.)