How big is my repulsion for Jane Austen’s writing? Think of the size of the Atlantic Ocean. Think Pacific Ocean. That big. All Jane Austen books should end up at the bottom of the sea.
To prove I mean no malice for the author, I’ve included a heartfelt apology at the bottom of this post. In between it and here is a sailing excerpt of a Jane Austen moment in the novel SEETHINGS II. It’s a quirky inclusion, cleverly woven into a much darker, contemporary ocean-going narrative.
Here we go:
“So she’s said yes to staying overnight on the yacht with you?”
“Not yet. There’s a little boat ride to come next. Getting from the shore to the yacht was a hoot and a half I’ll tell ya.”
“Yes?”
“I said before that the wind had died and the sun had almost set. The bay was a millpond with every sun-coloured cloud reflected in its waters. There were crimsons, yellows and patches of gold everywhere. It was one of the best evenings I’d ever seen out there. You can see the dinghy hanging from the davits behind me, right? It’s not that big. Two people are all it can hold and I have to face back to row it, see? She sat on the other seat facing me. Our knees were virtually touching each other. She sees me looking at her and asks: Why am I smiling like that?”
“Oh?”
“I told her that this could have been a scene from any Jane Austen novel, where two would-be lovers are gazing into each other’s eyes while rowing themselves into a fairy tale love story.”
“Oh, that’s ripe Mitchell. It’s good but very much on-the-nose.”
“Yeah, it’s cheesy alright and she just rolled her eyes at it. So then I said to her, ‘It’s a very romantic scene, don’cha think?’ And she replies in a sarcastic tone, ‘Very‘.”
“Did she mean it?”
“The sarcasm said everything, mate. On paper, it reads fine but something about the real version isn’t quite right. I’m not a brooding, unobtainable Mister fucking Darcy and she’s not some hapless romantic virgin looking to marry someone above her station.”
Pete laughs while Mitchell takes a sip of his drink and then continues telling him his story. “So I smiled, again and again, she asked me, ‘Why am I doing that?’”
“You were playing her, weren’t you?”
“You betcha I was. I could see the frustration behind those eyes but she was in my world now. She’s in my dinghy about to get onto my boat. Sure, she doesn’t know what’s going to happen but her safety depended on me, so she had to be nice. If we were on the mainland, things would’ve been different. She’d be the one playing me knowing she could leave at any time. Not out here mate. It was of no value for her to piss the skipper off. How would she get home if she did that?”
“I love it. So what did you tell her?”
“I told her I knew what she was thinking.”
“Which was?”
“I said that she was thinking about what the sleeping arrangements on the boat would be and what was gonna happen between me and her… and if anyone would hear her screams during the night.”
My Dearest Jane Austen,
I apologize. I don’t hate you. I know you’re dead and can’t hear me but I think it still counts if I say so anyway. My genre is totally opposite to yours. It’s Noir. Actually, it’s Neo-noir. There’s quite a bit of sex involved in them too so you can see why I despise your airy-fairy-styled work… but not you.
Regards,
Michael Forman, Author (The above excerpt is from SEETHINGS II)
‘Forman’s writing style is artful, with the protagonist Mitchell’s warped thought processes masterfully exposed. The author has a powerful and vivid command of language and his word pictures are stark and disturbingly real.’
Linda J Bettenay, author of ‘Secrets Mothers Keep’ and ‘Wishes For Starlight’
Façade of Perfect Civility 
😃
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