So today I’ve spent reading the majority of ‘Memoirs of Emma Courtney’, which, despite and perhaps because of its terrible importance as an enlightenment feminist text, is also quite exquisitely terrible. It is, of course, vaguely autobiographical (so thinly veiled that contemporary critics, after having read it, went on to make the most fearful caricatures of Hays. In that regard, any criticism feels somewhat mean spirited, especially when one considers the gendered, patriarchal oppression that ran through the period. Despite this, however, not one sympathetic character appears, each being as ghastly as the last. As I’m already familiar with the plot, I look forward to the sad ending, and continue to rue the fact that it will be necessary, proto-feministic and philosophically inclined as it is, to re-read for my thesis next summer.
Apart from enduring this novel, I’ve also sent off a pitch to comment is free. Fingers crossed for that idea, but as ever, I’ve already come up with an idea for pitch number 3, which awaits tomorrow morning to be sent off to the spectator.
You might have noticed by now, I have the tendency to barely complete one thing before being enraptured by the next. Speaking of which, and despite the fact that novel 2 needs another draft or two before being sent off in search of an agent, I’m already super-duper excited about novel three. Whether or not this is due to the fact that I seem to need to be writing something to not be a restless bundle of nerves, or whether I’m truly excited about the plot itself is surely irrelevant, and no doubt a mixture of the two. Then again, that’s how I know that the writing life is for me. A day without thinking about a project feels like a day without coffee.