Authors

  • The Extraordinary Imagination of Tanith Lee

    Mavis Haut’s invaluable study of Lee

    The Extraordinary Imagination of Tanith Lee

    I’m not sure when I first came across a book by Tanith Lee. My first real memory of seeing one is likely from the 1980s – Sabella. I remember standing in the local bookshop, a family-run business founded in the 19th century. Sabella was sitting on a shelf with a cover picture of a young woman wearing a pendant. Curious, I picked it up to look at it. I didn’t buy it then. I filed it away for future reference. Now she’s the most represented author on my bookshelves.

    Tanith Lee was the author of over 90 novels and 300 short stories. She wrote in multiple genres – fantasy, science fiction, horror, historical, and even a crime novel. She won several prestigious awards and was nominated for many more.

    Her lush, imaginative fiction ranged from children’s stories, to young adult novels (before YA was even a category), right through to adult fiction.

    And if that wasn’t enough, she wrote two episodes of the cult British science-fiction series, Blake’s 7.

    Tanith Lee never had any children. Her husband John Kaine says, in the opening to Night’s Nieces, a collection of stories by women writers influenced by Lee, that children would have taken away too much writing time. But she would happily have given birth to cats.

    Lee met Kaine, an artist and writer, in 1987 and they married in 1992. Sadly, Lee died in 2015 from breast cancer at the age of 67. But, in her long career stretching over more than forty years, she accomplished more than the vast majority of writers ever do.

    Lee’s childhood and upbringing

    Lee was born in 1947. Her parents were professional dancers, which led to the family moving around a lot for work. Mildly dyslexic, she learned to read at the age of eight with the help of her father and Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales. By nine she was already writing. But she found school and homework an interruption to ‘the fantasy projection of my inner world.’

    In spite of reading late, she managed to pass her eleven-plus exam and entered grammar school. There three teachers inspired her – the history teacher, the English teacher, and the religion teacher. She would later describe them as her intellectual heroines. They were so interested in their subjects, they were able to pass on that interest, something that would influence Lee in her own writing.

    Likewise, her father introduced her to Shakespeare and retold the different tales with genuine passion and love for the subject. Picking up on this, she went on to read them herself. Meanwhile her mother told her fairy stories, but, in her mother’s version, the prince would marry the wicked witch, which is just the sort of thing you’d expect in Lee’s later reworking of fairy tales.

    After leaving school, she went on to study at Croydon Art College, dropping out after a year. Then she had a string of jobs, including assistant librarian.

    Early success

    Her first story was privately printed, and her children’s book The Dragon Hoard was sold when she was only 21. But it was The Birthgrave, a fantasy novel rejected by UK publishers, that propelled her to full-time professional writer when it was purchased by the US publisher DAW Books.

    In my twenties some of my work for children was published by Macmillan. However, I was twenty-seven before my adult novel, The Birthgrave, was taken by DAW Books in the USA. This enabled me finally to stop doing stupid and soul-killing jobs, and start working day and night as a professional writer.

    It felt like a rescue from damnation, and still does.

    Tanith Lee in interview with Tabula Rasa

    Writing method

    Lee wrote by hand. She described it as almost writing in a zigzag, across and down. Her mother typed up her early stories, before she later typed them up herself. She claimed that no one (other than her mother presumably) could read her writing. Sometimes when Lee went back to type up her longhand manuscript, even she couldn’t read some bits herself.

    She wrote fast. On average, one hundred pages a month and a full novel in longhand in about four months. But she told a shocked Stan Nicholls that her vampire SF novella, Sabella, was written in nine days. Unfortunately, she was blocked for one and a half days, otherwise Sabella would have been finished sooner!

    To put this in context, the finished book is around 150 pages.

    She also mentioned in a 1998 interview in Locus Magazine that she used to throw out her old handwritten manuscripts, but now at age 50 she kept them in case anyone was ever interested in seeing them.

    When it came to research, Lee would read books and watch films about the relevant locations or eras. She also told Mavis Haut, author of The Hidden Library of Tanith Lee, that she sometimes just rushed in and wrote from her gut and instinct.

    Lee would begin a project by telling herself she would start a story/novel tomorrow or whenever. She could start out with as little as a title, an image, a phrase, a feeling. Sometimes the characters came first, or the location, or even the time of day. On other occasions she might plan a bit in advance, but not even to the midpoint. She noted that her characters influenced the direction and ending of a plot. And her characters always surprised her. Which likely made it impossible to nail down a full outline in advance.

    If she ran into blocks, and taking breaks didn’t work, she found she just had to hack her way through. Writing, when it went well, was like being possessed.

    I suppose if I analyse it, it’s a case of letting go of the here and now, and getting into the then and there.

    Tanith Lee in interview with Stan Nicholls

    Lee was not someone who spent much time in rewriting. She would go through and tidy sentence structure and remove repetitions. But she didn’t rewrite for editors unless there was a genuine error. This might explain why her prose can be denser than other writers in the same genres.

    She believed that when a book was ‘coming’, it came right. And the writing often poured out of her, though she could be hit by pauses when she struggled over something. Her French Revolution novel was an exception at the time of the interview with Stan Nicholls in that she wrote three drafts.

    Lee also didn’t write for the market. She followed her own muse and instinctively knew that writing for the market would mean the end of her career and her love of writing. She had to write what she wanted to write.

    It’s possible that in addition to having plenty of ideas to work with, the idea of writing commercially was like returning to the normal world of work she’d been glad to escape in her twenties. And, as a writer, she could live and work according to her own schedule. Her time was her own, not something to be fitted in around the demands of a full-time employer.

    Lee’s approach to genre

    In interviews, Lee often expressed a dislike of labels and genre. Her multi-genre interests would become a problem in the nineties as I deal with below. There are clearly far too many books to include here, so I’ve chosen to pick out only a few as examples.

    Fantasy

    For Tanith Lee, a good fantasy novel was similar to a good historical novel. And it was with fantasy that she began her professional career. I am less familiar with her early fantasy novels and can’t comment on them much other than to say they made her name. The Flat Earth Series in particular seems to be highly regarded.

    Children’s fantasy was a big part of her work in this genre.

    Some of her contemporary books, published later in her career, also had fantastic elements, like Eva Fairdeath, a post-apocalyptic novel. She also wrote dark fantasy – the Paradys series would be an example of that, though I deal with that later. Fairy tale and mythological stories overlap with fantasy, and that’s the next topic.

    Fairy tales

    Lee would go on to rework classic stories, most famously in her collection Red as Blood: Tales From the Sisters Grimmer. Just as her mother could turn fairy tale endings on their head, Lee too would make the supposed Evil Stepmother the heroine, and the Snow White character the real danger.

    When The Clock Strikes is a retelling of Cinderella with a mysterious and sinister narrator:

    Yes, the ballroom is filled only with dust now. The slender columns of white marble and the slender columns of rose-red marble are woven together by cobwebs. The vivid frescoes, on which the Duke’s treasury spent so much, are dimmed by the dust: the painted goddesses look grey. And the velvet curtains–touch them, they will crumble. Two hundred years now since anyone danced in this place on the sea-green floor in the candle-gleam. Two hundred years since the wonderful clock struck for the very last time…

    When the Clock Strikes, Tanith Lee

    Beauty and the Beast meanwhile opens on the Beast in space, looking down on Earth.

    While Lee followed in the wake of Angela Carter’s feminist reworking of fairy tales, her multi-genre background, lush language, and strong visuals contrast with Carter’s style. Both writers bring their own unique style to their fairy tale retellings.

    Science Fiction

    When it came to science fiction, Lee wrote in the genre, but didn’t like some of what was published there and described herself as running in the opposite direction. She had read a lot more fantasy and science fiction in her teens, but in later years was drawn to other authors. Ray Bradbury was one of the authors she still bought. Her SF novels are often utopian-dystopian in nature. On the one hand, there are beautiful people living privileged lives, but there is always a dark underside.

    Biting the Sun

    In Don’t Bite the Sun (1976) and Drinking Sapphire Wine (1977), we’re introduced to what appears to be a utopian society. The opening lines show the narrator’s friend has killed himself again, for the fortieth time, needing a replacement body. This is a world where people kill themselves out of boredom, only to come back. The problems of utopianism and the lack of challenge to the young characters lead them to hedonism and lives that are less fulfilled than they could be. The characters can change bodies and genders, but their robot world leaves them with nothing else to do. To escape this world means exile and the dangers of what lies beyond.

    Originally published separately, they now appear in a single volume (see above).

    In The Silver Metal Lover (1981), Jane, a spoiled young woman, falls in love with a minstrel robot, Silver. Of course he’s different from the other robots. There is something unique about him, and it comes to represent the question of whether a robot can have a soul. Jane’s mother is a domineering figure, while her young friends are spoilt and shallow. A coming of age story, the MC has to break away and risk going out into the world without her mother’s money, all the time in danger of being found by the corporation who want Silver back.

    These science-fiction novels fit into the Young Adult category. They’re lush and descriptive, with young characters trying to find their own way in their dystopian worlds. The Silver Metal Lover is particularly well-loved among fans.

    Sabella – not the cover I originally saw

    I was out hunting the night my aunt Cassie died. As she was taking her last breath of revitalized Arean air, I was high on the Hammerhead Plateau, under forty thousand stars burning like diamond bonfires. Maybe I even killed in the same minute she let that last breath go.

    Opening lines of Sabella

    In the novella Sabella, Lee combined a story set on another planet (very similar to Mars) with the vampire genre. Humans have settled on Novo Mars, but the original inhabitants of the planet are a mystery, though archaeological artefacts have been found. Main character, Sabella, is a young woman, living by herself. It soon becomes clear that she is a vampire. But she doesn’t understand her own origins. After killing a lover, she suddenly finds a stranger at her door, a man who stalks her, wanting to know the truth…

    Lee’s SF stories are poetic and lush. Within the then male-dominated field she was writing something quite different.

    Horror, Gothic and vampire fiction

    When it came to horror and dark fantasy, Lee had very much a goth sensibility. You can see it in photos of her as a young woman. Vampires creep up quite a bit in her writing. From her short story, Bite Me Not or Fleur de Fur, to her Blood Opera Sequence, to the 1995 novel Vivia, and many more stories.

    Her Paradys series of books included The Book of the Damned (1988), The Book of the Beast (1988), The Book of the Dead (1989), and The Book of the Mad (1993). Set in an alternative Paris, the first book, Damned, is made up of three novellas, each set around different colours and stained glass windows. The time periods are the 19th century, the early fourteenth century, and the 1930s/40s. The first novella again deals with vampires.

    The Booklist critic Roland Green said, “The whole work is an astonishingly good mix of horror, historical fantasy, and intense but well-handled eroticism… all of which no fantasist but Lee could probably achieve.“

    The Book of the Dead

    The third book in this series, The Book of the Dead, is a series of connected stories. Lee would revisit alternative locations with her Secret Books of Venus, set in an alternate Venice.

    Then there was her Blood Opera Sequence of gothic/vampire novels – Dark Dance (1992), Personal Darkness (1993), and Darkness, I (1994). Mavis Haut notes in her book, The Hidden Library of Tanith Lee, that this series had a contemporary setting owing to a request from the publisher.

    Another vampire novel is The Blood of Roses, a huge book published in 1990 in the UK which didn’t stay in print for long. It was never published in the US. Luckily, Immanion Press have republished this book in two volumes.

    Sudden publishing obstacles in the 1990s

    But after her successes in the 1970s and 1980s, she hit major obstacles in the 1990s. Due to changes in the publishing industry (including consolidation), she suddenly found her proposals and books rejected. Publishers and editors who’d worked with her previously were no longer interested. There came a point where fans wrote to ask if she’d died because no new books had been published.

    Because she wrote in more than one genre, she could receive rejections from publishers saying they’d never heard of her (because they were unfamiliar with her other genres) or she wasn’t writing what she usually did, so they weren’t interested. However, the problems escalated in the nineties.

    In spite of this, Lee just kept on writing, building up a body of unpublished work, stacked in a cupboard. The problem in publishing related to a number of changes that took place in that decade. But the increasing obsession with publishing categories and authors writing the same kind of thing (seen as more reliable and less risky) hit multi-genre authors like Lee.

    ”If anyone ever wonders why there’s nothing coming from me, it’s not my fault. I’m doing the work. No, I haven’t deteriorated or gone insane. Suddenly, I just can’t get anything into print. And apparently I’m not alone in this. There are people of very high standing, authors who are having problems. So I have been told. In my own case, the more disturbing element is the editor-in-chief who said to me, ‘I think this book is terrific. It ought to be in print. I can’t publish it – I’ve been told I mustn’t.’ The indication is that I’m not writing what people want to read, but I never did.”

    Tanith Lee in Locus Magazine

    Ultimately, smaller publishers and the internet would come to the rescue. Immanion Press have also re-released some of her books and published newer works.

    But the changes that came in the nineties impacted a lot of authors. It wasn’t just a multi-genre writer like Tanith Lee. Midlist authors in general took a hit. As time went on, publishing decisions were founded on the sales figures for the last book. If the last book didn’t do so well, you’d likely face rejection.

    Judas Garbah and Esther Garber

    Later, Lee would write some fiction ‘channelled’ from Esther Garber and her half-brother Judas Garbah. These writing personae allowed her to explore same-sex attraction. The short story collection Disturbed by Her Song brings these stories together. While I believe I have this book on my Kindle, I haven’t had a chance to read it. This collection was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award for Best LGBT Speculative Fiction since the channelled sibling writers are gay.

    Lessons to learn from Tanith Lee

    As a developmental editor and fan of her work, I was particularly interested in her approach to writing, which is why I’ve focused more on that than on the individual works themselves. I found her ‘channelling’ of her stories, as if picking up something from the atmosphere to make perfect sense for her style of writing. In one interview, she even speculated on it being related to ‘race memories’:

    …we’re all built of all these genes in little bits and pieces that come through to us from the very beginning of our ancestry and it seems to me quite logical that some of those genes can carry recollections. Some people are more susceptible to it than others, which means one’s seen a hell of a lot of things, the genes have, and if they can pass it on to the brain, one could pick it up, and amalgamate a bit here and a bit there, and you’d have a story and a set of characters.

    Not all writers approach writing like Tanith Lee. Some writers are conscious plotters. In another blog post, I addressed Ira Levin’s very different style of writing where he only wrote one draft, but went over and over a scene before moving on to the next. With Lee, the writing is pouring out from somewhere.

    She deals with myth, fairy tale, archetypes, gender and sexuality, and much more. She saw her overall body of work like a mosaic, with the overall picture not yet clear.

    My aim with this post was to introduce new readers and also writers to Lee. But I’m often concerned with some of the writing advice given to writers, especially newer writers. It often demands a very conscious approach to the writing process, juggling different components of writing in a way that might overwhelm some writers.

    Sometimes it looks like the component parts of a fictional machine lying dismantled on the floor. Yet writing is organic.

    Part of the reason for some of this advice is about marketing expertise and trying to find some writing topic to show that expertise. This can lead to informative posts. But some of the advice looks too much like micro-managing to me. It might work for some writers, but it will possibly lead to writing blocks for others.

    Lee’s early exposure to fairy tale, Shakespeare, and more, and her advanced reading skills (once she overcame the mild dyslexia problem) likely gave her an instinctive grasp of storytelling, character, and theme.

    Reading lots of books is the best advice for writers. Absorb different styles and see what works best for you. You might indeed be someone who likes to plot out your novel with spreadsheets. But you might be someone who feels they’re possessed, channelling characters and wondering what the hell is going on.

    Well, you wouldn’t be the first writer to experience that. For Lee, it seemed to be part of what made her work resonate with so many people.

    When you mention Tanith Lee’s name online, you’ll often find strangers turn up to say how much they loved her books. But in Lee’s case, there are so many books, and even more short stories.

    Darrell Schweitzer once said that:

    …this lady is one of the literary dynamos of our time, enormously prolific in the novel, the short story and all lengths in between; but, quite unlike most hyper-prolific writers of the past, she has maintained an astonishingly high level of quality throughout her career

    References

    The Hidden Library of Tanith Lee by Mavis Haut (McFarland, 2001) digs into many (though not all) of Lee’s novels. There is also a brief interview with Lee at the end.

    Has an Art Deco Radio Box in Her Head – Chapter 37 of Wordsmiths of Wonder by Stan Nicholls (Orbit, 1993). This book is a collection of interviews with different authors. The tag line on the cover says ‘Fifty interviews with authors of the fantastic’. Lee’s interview digs into her childhood, her early career, her issues with categorisation, how long she takes to write, and more. It was a good source of information for this article.

    Speaking of Horror: Interviews with the Writers of the Supernatural: v. 48 by Darrell Schweitzer

    Some of Lee’s books, especially short story collections, have either forewords or little snippets of her commentary introducing them, which has added to my understanding of her approach to writing.

    Locus Magazine 1998 interview

    Tabula Rasa Interview

    Tanith Lee Obituary in the Guardian

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  • Maeve Brennan

    Maeve Brennan
    Maeve Brennan

    Maeve Brennan was an expatriate Irish writer who spent most of her life in the United States. There she worked for Harper’s Bazaar as a fashion writer until 1949 when William Shawn invited her to move to The New Yorker.

    Some of her short stories had already been published in the magazine before she started writing her ‘communications’ or vignettes of New York under the Talk of the Town column. Her by-line was the Long-Winded Lady. Her real name would not be revealed until William Morrow published forty-seven of her columns as The Long-Winded Lady in 1969. While two of her short story collections were published in the United States during her lifetime, she was largely unknown in Ireland.

    Maeve Brennan: The Long-Winded Lady
    The Long-Winded Lady – Maeve Brennan

    To some extent, Maeve Brennan’s life has parallels with that of Vivian Maier, a nanny who lived a low-key life of anonymity, while taking thousands of photos. Vivian was an incredible street photographer, capturing ordinary people in fleeting moments. These photos would only be discovered after her death.

    But Maeve was more glamorous than Vivian. Petite and barely over five feet tall, she wore her auburn hair back or in a pony tail and was always impeccably dressed for a good part of her life. Her fashion writing doubtless helped establish her personal style. She wore strong lipstick, drank, and swore like a longshoreman.

    But while she had short stories published at Harper’s Bazaar and The New Yorker, like Maier she was never famous in her lifetime and was almost unknown in Ireland. And like Maier, Maeve captured ordinary fleeting moments in these vignettes. But her portraits of city life were captured in words, not film. In a letter to her editor and close friend William Maxwell, she said she wanted to write as though the camera had never been invented.

    In her author’s note to The Long-Winded Lady collection, she writes:

    It is as though the long-winded lady were showing snapshots taken during a long, slow journey not through but in the most cumbersome, most reckless, most ambitious, most confused, most comical, the saddest and coldest and most human of cities… 

    Maeve Brennan

    The attention to detail shown in these vignettes also appears in her short stories and her novella, The Visitor.

    Early life

    Maeve was born in Dublin in January 1917 to Irish Republican parents. She was one of four children. She and her two sisters were all named after ancient Irish queens: Emer, Deirdre and Maeve.

    Irish politics was at the centre of her parents’ life back then. Both participated in the Easter Rising in 1916. While Maeve’s mother Una was only imprisoned for a few days, her father Robert was condemned to death, though his sentence was commuted. He was in prison when Maeve was born.

    Robert, a de Valera supporter, continued to clash with the authorities, including Michael Collins’ Irish Free Staters who raided Maeve’s childhood home, an event she revisits in one of her short stories The Day We Got Our Own Back.

    The move to America

    In 1934, da Valera appointed Robert to the Irish Legation in Washington. Robert’s wife and children moved with him, and so Maeve’s American life began. She attended a Catholic convent school and went on to study English at the American University, graduating in 1938. She was fiercely Irish in the United States, and a glamorous American when she visited her home country.

    Her parents and brother returned to Ireland in the nineteen-forties, but she stayed behind, along with her two sisters. She had moved to New York and was soon writing fashion copy for Harper’s Bazaar.

    Thanks to Harper’s Irish editor Carmel Snow, Maeve got to meet other Irish writers and was often to be found at Costello’s Bar on Third Avenue. There she would come into contact with future colleagues from The New Yorker. She had already started writing her short stories during this time as well as her novella, The Visitor.

    Maeve was only seventeen when she left Ireland. But her childhood home, the street and the neighbourhood in Dublin would come to feature over and over again in the stories she penned while living in New York.

    Interestingly, Maeve never wrote about the biggest disruption of her life – the move to Washington. Her writing looks back to her childhood in Dublin, or later to her life in New York or her observations about the wealthy and their servants in an exclusive Hudson River enclave.

    The short stories

    From the time I was almost five until I was almost eighteen, we lived in a small house in a part of Dublin called Ranelagh. On our street, all of the houses were of red brick and had small back gardens, part cement and part grass, separated from one another by low stone walls…

    The Morning after the Big Fire by Maeve Brennan

    When you read Maeve Brennan’s stories set in Dublin, you sense that there’s a biographical truth in a character’s home, their street, or the furnishings of a room. She’s mining her past, her childhood, her family and heritage from thousands of miles away. And perhaps distance in space and time sharpened her memories.

    The opening to The Morning after the Big Fire reads like someone reminiscing about their childhood – going into detail about the houses in the street and the common end wall, and the tennis court at the back. Nostalgia is a big part of Maeve’s writing. The story is told from the perspective of a young girl whose father reports a fire at the shop and garage next door.

    The next day, the girl tells the neighbours, revelling in being the bearer of news. But she’s suddenly very annoyed when it seems one of the men might go round and check out the ruins and be a greater authority than her. She’s already been banned from going near the remains of the building.

    This is exactly how a child might feel when there’s a moment of drama. Suddenly the centre of attention and authority, and aware that it could all be lost any moment when an adult steps in. When the other children go round to see the wreckage, she is no longer the authority and pretends to be disinterested.

    When the new garage is built, she secretly hopes it will catch fire and watches to see if it does. But there is no other fire before her family leave the house years later. The story ends with her thinking that if some child went round there with a match, she wouldn’t blame them, as long as she got to tell the story first.

    The Morning after the Big Fire is a very short story – about three pages long. It’s built on nostalgia, her childhood home, and wryly observes child psychology.

    In another story, The Old Man of the Sea, the girl, her sister and mother are plagued by an old man who comes round to sell apples. Her mother always takes pity on beggars, so she buys two bags.

    After that, he comes round every week with two bags prepared. The mother can’t get rid of him. She doesn’t want all those apples. The situation escalates from week to week, while the girl is reminded of the old man Sinbad carried on his back. An old man who seemed to get heavier and heavier as time goes on.

    The story is simple and full of humour as the mother, a soft touch for anyone who comes to the door, eventually hides in the kitchen and then the back garden. The mother in the story has a lot in common with Maeve’s mother.

    Religion comes up in some of the stories – the girl narrator in The Barrel of Rumours is sure the poor Clare nuns sleep in coffins, and that they have to be measured up for their coffin the first day they enter the convent. Her mother thinks this is nonsense and wishes she would shut up about it.

    All these stories and more appear in The Springs of Affection. This was the first of Maeve’s collections to be published after her death.

    Maeve Brennan: The Rose Garden
    Maeve Brennan: The Rose Garden

    In another collection, The Rose Garden, there are five stories set in Dublin, while the rest are set in the US, whether Manhattan or a wealthy community on the Hudson.

    In real life, Maeve married The New Yorker’s managing editor, St Clair McKelway. The marriage shocked some of their friends and colleagues who did not expect a good outcome. McKelway was an alcoholic and indeed the marriage would only last five years.

    But during that time they lived in the exclusive Hudson River retreat of Sneden’s Landing. A place that would offer Maeve more inspiration. She later recorded the snobbery of the wealthy in her satirical stories set in the fictional Herbert’s Retreat. The maids in these families are invariably Irish. In her biography of Maeve Brennan, Angela Bourke speculates that the stories may have been building to form a novel. Six were published in The New Yorker but most critics failed to interpret the coded messages about how the privileged appeared through the eyes of their Irish maids.

    With her marriage coming to an end, Maeve and McKelway agreed to divorce. In late 1959 she moved back to Manhattan. She had a cat and kittens with her, but her other cats and her beloved black Labrador Bluebell had to wait until she found better accommodation.

    Bluebell and the cats appear a few times in Maeve’s short stories, but perhaps one of the most poignant examples is the one that opens as the preface to the short story collection, The Rose Garden. One of her Long-Winded Lady vignettes, she’s lying on the beach at East Hampton, where she lived for several years. Bluebell and the cats are there, but it soon becomes clear it’s a dream. The beloved pets are long gone. The year is 1976. Maeve is almost sixty.

    The Visitor

    Maeve Brennan: The Visitor
    The Visitor

    Maeve had already written her novella, The Visitor, before she went to work at The New Yorker. She was still in her twenties. The novella wasn’t discovered until 1997. It was first published in 2001, less than a decade after her death.

    The story of The Visitor follows Anastasia King, a young woman who has been living in Paris with her mother. At the beginning of the novella, she is returning in a train to Dublin. Her mother is dead, so she is coming back to live with her grandmother. But Mrs King, who never liked Anastasia’s mother, is nursing a grievance. And while she is never rude to her granddaughter, it’s clear that the old woman has no intention of letting her stay for long.

    It is tale of loneliness, and a thirst for love, undercut by a beautifully understated cruelty and revenge. A story where daughters and granddaughters suffer at the hands of their older female relatives. Not only Anastasia herself, but an older woman she befriends whose own mother stopped her marrying the love of her life. But even Anastasia’s friendship with this woman takes a darker and crueller turn when she deliberately fails to carry out the woman’s last wish. On a first read it seems almost unfathomable that the simple request isn’t carried out.

    The manuscript of The Visitor was discovered in 1997 at the University of Notre Dame Library. It was among the papers of Maisie Ward from the Catholic publishers Sheed and Ward.

    It’s not clear whether Maeve failed to keep her own carbon copy. No copy was found among her own papers. It’s believed that the novella was written between 1944 and 1945 while she was living in a sixth-floor apartment at East 10th Street. She was in her mid-twenties and still writing fashion copy for Harper’s. The bitter heart of the story would stand in contrast with the writing in her day job.

    The Long-Winded Lady

    Maeve moved to The New Yorker in 1949. And in 1954 the first of her Long-Winded Lady pieces was published there. While Maeve’s Dublin stories mined her memories of her childhood, her Talk of the Town vignettes were very much rooted in the present. It wasn’t that she didn’t reflect on the past in these prose pieces. In fact, she was very aware of the constantly changing nature of the city – of buildings always being torn down to make way for the new.

    In one story she writes of a farmhouse which was moved to a different part of the city to preserve the building. But she also writes about people like herself who lived in hotels and dined in restaurants and wandered the streets.

    She observed what was going on around her, and recorded fleeting moments that most other writers would probably ignore.

    One particular 1969 vignette titled The Solitude of Their Expression has Maeve looking out her window. She is living in a Forty-ninth street hotel with two big rooms, high ceilings, and big windows on three sides. She can see the Empire State Building. But one memorable part of this piece has her observing an elderly woman in another hotel. The woman’s window has two red geraniums.

    Maeve remembers recently watching this woman sitting at her window, two floors down from the roof, reading a letter. The thin and aging white net curtains were fastened back to let in all the light and air. It was a hot day.

    ‘Without turning her head she put her right hand with the sheet of paper in it out the window, stretched her arm to full length, and let the paper go. It fluttered down and away, and she went on reading.’

    The woman reads the second sheet of paper, then stretches her arm out the window and lets it go. A third sheet of paper soon follows. Then she stands up and vanishes into the dimness of the room.

    Everything from the geraniums in the window, the thin white net curtain of the hotel, the hot weather, the sheets floating down the outside of the hotel are transient. Both women are long gone. Brennan captures moments like these that would otherwise never be known. How could this elderly woman imagine people reading about her over half a century later?

    Maeve lived in hotels like this, moving from one to another. She walked the streets, dined in cafes, and watched the people around her. The Long-Winded Lady is an observer recording the changing city and its inhabitants.

    The Springs of Affection

    After Maeve divorced McKelway she became something of a wanderer. She continued to write. Her masterpiece long story The Springs of Affection was published in The New Yorker in 1972. The story clearly mines her memories of Ireland, Dublin, Wexford, her parents, and her wider family.

    The central character is Min Bagot. The Bagot family appear in a number of Maeve’s stories. But in this one Delia and Martin are dead. Min, who was Martin’s twin, reflects on her memories, including the day when everything changed – the day Martin married Delia. Nothing was ever the same again. Their mother never approved of Delia, and neither did Min. Min’s two sisters will also go on to marry, but she will remain with her mother. She wanted to be a teacher but instead becomes a dressmaker.

    Her bitterness seeps through the story. Yet to her, the triumph is that she is the last one standing. Her sisters, her brother, her mother and father, and Delia are all dead. You can be jealous of those just starting out, but you can’t be jealous of the dead. She sits among the furnishings, books, and possessions she’s taken from her brother’s home. She returns in her mind to the day of her twin’s marriage and the in-laws’ farmhouse.

    ‘These families went a long way back in time, and they remembered marriages that had taken place a hundred years before. They didn’t talk, as Min understood talk. Here in the country they wove webs with names and dates and places. The dead were mentioned in the same voice with the living, so that fathers and sisters and cousins who had been gone for decades could have trooped through the house and through the orchards and gardens and found themselves at home, the same as always, and they could even have counted on finding their own names and their own faces registered faithfully somewhere among the generations that had succeeded them.’

    Maeve’s biographer, Angela Bourke, notes that ‘Almost every fact in ‘The Springs of Affection’ is true, and yet the story is not. The relationships in two families over three generations, the appearance of houses and countryside, the people in the story, the work they do and the room where they do it, all are precise in their details and historical fact.’

    However, there were parts that were very much not true. Going by the biographical details, Min Bagot was clearly modelled on Nan Brennan, one of Maeve’s older relatives. Yet Nan was very far from the cold and spiteful central character of the story. She was well liked in her community, independent, visited daily by relatives, friends, and neighbours. She was also eighty-five years old at the time of publication and The New Yorker had a way of reaching all the way to Wexford in Ireland. So much so that Nan wrote on the back of an old photo of Maeve and Bluebell, ‘Greatly changed for the worse, 1972.’

    Meanwhile, Maeve was becoming increasingly eccentric. Her beloved Bluebell had died, leaving her adrift. Her parents back in Ireland were dead. Maeve’s mental health began to decline and she became paranoid. Her appearance changed, her makeup sloppy. Homeless, she took up residence next to the women’s room on the nineteenth floor of The New Yorker. There she took in a sick pigeon, and gave money to people on the street.

    Maeve claimed that her younger sister Derry, who had already moved back to Ireland, had stopped speaking to her after the publication of The Springs of Affection. Nevertheless, when Maeve visited Ireland in 1973, she spent some time at her sister’s house. She spent about a year in the country, not always living in the same place. Her appearance improved but she was again showing confusion even before she returned to America. There her mental health continued to decline. She was hospitalised more than once. She also vanished for periods of time, leaving her American friends worried.

    Her daydream piece about Bluebell and the cats at East Hampton was published in The New Yorker column in 1976. Maeve’s biographer Angela Bourke speculates that Maeve may have written the piece from a hospital bed.

    Maeve’s last Long-Winded Lady communication was published in 1981. She died in 1993 in a nursing home. She was seventy-six. The staff of the home were surprised to learn she had been a writer.

    Although there was already a growing interest in her work before her death, it was with the publication of The Springs of Affection collection that Maeve Brennan began to achieve the fame she never saw in her lifetime. A second collection, The Rose Garden, followed, along with the rediscovered manuscript of The Visitor. Angela Bourke’s biography was published in 2004.

    Lessons from Maeve’s writing

    Maeve didn’t write on a huge canvas. Her fiction and her vignettes are focused on the small things. Incidents from childhood are mined, family members become inspiration (and not always in a flattering way).

    Where bigger events enter the scene – the Republican struggle and the clash with the Free Staters – they are viewed through a child’s eyes. Maeve gives some context through the lens of someone looking back in time. But the story The Day We Got Our Own Back is very much a child’s view of what should be a frightening event.

    Maeve is equally detailed in her vignettes recording Manhattan as the city changed around her. Her eye for detail picks out people and fleeting moments that other writers might overlook. It’s a lesson in attention to detail, something helped by her time writing fashion copy at Harper’s Bazaar.

    Just as actors observe the people around them, so must writers. But writers should also view the world around them, fleeting moments, memories from the past.

    Writers are told to write what they know. Maeve Brennan is a good example of someone who did just that. She wrote about a transitional time in Irish history. She didn’t write about the famous people. Instead she detailed the lives of the people she grew up with, the family, neighbours, children, nuns, priests, and others.

    In New York she sat at her window, walked the streets, sat in cafes, and watched the world go by, noting the details and reporting them in her Talk of the Town column. She satirised the snobbery of the wealthy at Sneddon’s Landing on the Hudson, wrote stories about characters in Manhattan, and immortalised her beloved pets, like Bluebell.

    Her writing is not only seeped in nostalgia, and homesickness at times, but there’s also spite, satire, warmth, and humour.

    Maeve Brennan was revered by younger writers at The New Yorker, but her stories of Ireland failed to take off in her own country. Part of the reason was her mining of an increasingly distant past. But during her lifetime, Irish literature was dominated by men. It was only after her death that interest in her work grew, on both sides of the Atlantic.

    In her short story A Free Choice, published in The New Yorker in 1964, Maeve wrote:

    ‘She began to believe that she had been remembered at some time far back, at some moment when she had thought herself down and out and forgotten and derided. It had all been only in her imagination, that she had been forgotten. She had not been forgotten at all.‘

    Recommended reading

    Maeve Brennan: Homesick at the New Yorker by Angela Bourke (biography)

    The Springs of Affection by Maeve Brennan (short story collection)

    The Rose Garden by Maeve Brennan (short story collection)

    The Visitor by Maeve Brennan (novella)

    The Long-Winded Lady by Maeve Brennan (Maeve’s collected vignettes from the New Yorker)

    Related IndieCat Editorial posts

    Here are other posts on authors and their work:

    Joan Lindsay and Picnic at Hanging Rock – IndieCat Editorial

    Beautiful Shadow: A Life of Patricia Highsmith – IndieCat Editorial