Fiction author Robin Brande talks about writing, reading, and other vital matters

This morning while Sue and Emily made friends with the Beefeaters at the Tower of London (those are big strapping men who live there and deal with the tourists, and answer 10,000 times a day, “Why are you called Beefeaters?”), I made my way by three separate Tube connections to Charles Dickens’ house over on Doughty Street.

In the not quite two years he lived in that house, he wrote The Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist, and Nicholas Nickleby, along with parts of other novels. Every time I look at Dickens’ prolific output I feel the intense shame of my own meager one. I can write novels quickly, but not that quickly. And more to the point, I’m not sure I have that many great ideas, or can pull them off with such artistry. It can be a little discouraging if I let it.

Or, on the other hand, I can use it to inspire. I prefer that. Let Dickens set the bar high, and I’ll know how much harder I have to work.

Dickens was a driven man. He’d suffered the effects of poverty and was not amused. He never left to chance his own success.

Down in the basement of the house, there was a documentary playing on a continuous loop. And my favorite part of it was this: when Dickens was about 10 or 11–right before his father mismanaged the family finances so desperately, the whole family except Charles ended up in Debtors’ Prison–Charles and his father used to walk around the town of Chatham and look at all the fancy houses.

And one house up on Gad Hill always caught Charles’ eye. His father told the boy, “One day you can own that if you work hard enough,” or words to that effect.

“Ever one to set set goals and achieve them,” the documentary said, Charles went on to great success, and did eventually buy that fancy house on Gad Hill.

I love stories like that. I believe in the power of suggestion. I can easily understand how a 10-year-old boy can catch the fire of an idea, and take the path that will lead him to get it.

As Sue and I have been visiting all these palaces and castles the past few days, we like to play $65 million. That’s the game that begins, “If you won $65 million in the lottery, would you . . .”

In this case, it was, “Would you buy a castle in England? How would you get here? Would you buy a private jet?” (As far as I know, $65 million wouldn’t cover both of those. But let’s pretend.)

Our guide on the Jane Austen tour (and let me be clear: he is NOT the man who left behind two women on the Oxford tour yesterday. Ralph–Mr. Jane Austen–was a great guide. He wouldn’t leave anyone behind even if we’d breached the ropes at the Netherfield house and tackled Darcy’s manequin) told us that lately a bunch of rich American women have been buying up English estates to preserve them and sometimes live in them.

I understand that fantasy. You grow up reading Jane Austen or any of the great English authors, and you might crave a wealthy English estate where you can throw a few balls.

But as Sue and I were talking about it, I had to decide I probably wouldn’t spend my $65 million that way. The truth is, I prefer home. As beautiful as it is here in England, and even though I speak the language (even though when I say it, it sounds so ugly and dull. I’ve been so tempted to throw on my fake English accent, but what if it’s not good enough to pass? Exposure as a fraud would be much worse), I prefer the comfort and convenience of my own country. I understand the money. I understand the traffic. And even though all those things can be learned, I’m not sure I’d want to do that just to spend my $65 million. Maybe that makes me unimaginative. Sorry.

So here’s where it’s all left me, on this next-to-last day in London: I appreciate England. I appreciate the great novelists and scientists and statesmen all memorialized in Westminster Abbey. I love the sound of English spoken the way it is here. I love real English scones with clotted cream and thick jam. I love the English countryside and I love what they’ve done with their houses and castles and palaces. I love Mr. Darcy (obviously) and all the Englishmen like him. I love Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. I love much of what England is and has to offer, including its history and culture.

But I really love America–more. I’m looking forward to setting foot on it again. I like the problems we have in America–I get them. I like our attitude and our food. I’m ready for a big bowl of salsa and a bag of tortilla chips. Scones and jam are great in their time and place, but these particular organs and veins of mine need more flame. So it’s time to fly home tomorrow, sitting on a plane for ten and a half hours like veal, not moving but being constantly fed. Anything to return to my regular life.

Where I can go back to writing like the Dickens. Or at least try.

Technorati Tags: England, London, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen Tour, Reading, Literature, Literary Tours, Writing, Publishing, Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom, Mr. Darcy, Pride and Prejudice, Tower of London, Beefeaters

Posted on Thursday, June 29th, 2006 at 9:28 am under Writing, Reading, Life, Jane Austen Geekery . Subscribe to responses: RSS 2.0 Comment Feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.