Life On A B-I7

by Virginia Evans

To call this book unique may be a bit of an overstatement. It is an epistolary work (a work composed of letters) which at least makes it unique to me. This is Evan’s first published novel. She has been writing novels since she was 19 years old. This book was published last year, she was age 39. She wrote eight novels previously that were never picked up for publication. That is true dedication to your craft.

The novel feels to me like it is almost autobiographical. The main character could be the author. I later read in an interview that there is a great deal of the author in the book’s main character. The impression that the book is autobiographical makes it all the more attractive to me since I prefer non-fiction over fiction. With writing like this, I could become a fan of fiction.

I love this book! Here’s the problem for me. Either I’m too lazy, too stupid or I have an undiagnosed cognitive impairment of some sort because I’m having trouble keeping track of all the characters. The book is nothing but letters to and from the different people. I’m picking up the gist of all the interactions but there is a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I should be keeping some kind of “cheat sheet” of all the characters and their relationship to the protagonist of the novel. I’ll push on and see how it goes. The cat just jumped up on my writing desk and is demanding my attention. Fortunately I remember his name.

Here is the main character, Sybil, talking about her need to write letters:

“If one has committed oneself to the page, the tragedy I’ve just laid out will not apply.” (The tragedy she is referring to here is dying with no legacy to speak of.) “Imagine, the letters one has sent out into the world, the letters received back in turn, are like the pieces of a magnificent puzzle, or, a better metaphor, if dated, the links of a long chain, and even if those links are never put back together, which they will certainly never be, even if they remain for the rest of time dispersed across the earth like the fragile blown seeds of a dying dandelion, isn’t there something wonderful in that, to think that a story of one’s life is preserved in some way, that this very letter may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone?”

This is precisely why I have a blog. If you are reading this, you have found it. Sybil has beautifully articulated why I do this.

I am amazed the impression this book has had on me. I want to do my own writing now more than ever. But especially I have discovered how deeply moving a work of fiction can be. I have been critical of book clubs in the past, but if I hadn’t agreed to join this club for this selection, I would have missed a tremendious experience. I am thoroughly happy to have read “The Correspondent.”