Alice Munro - Writing Her Lives

the same admirable economy. Her stories do not have plots as much as they convey life, and the glimpses she provides into our universal experiences are alternately amusing, sad, and revealing.”
    In Britain, Peter Prince in the
New Statesman
writes that Munro, “the remarkable Canadian writer … offers an absolute object lesson” in restraint: “These tales of small-town Ontario life, mostly set in the Forties, are beautifully controlled and precise.” Adrian Vale writes in the
Irish Times
that “Munro’s selection of detail is so precise, she makes me see and feel it all”; compared to other writers at hand who also write about childhood, Munro is “a more experienced and accomplished writer, and the greater length and depth of her stories make them more satisfying.” In the
Daily Telegraph
Tim Heald notes that Munro’s stories are quiet, but she “is no worse for not shouting and her stories are full of deft observations and gentle profundities.” Finally, in the
Birmingham Post
Jean Richardson sees Munro as “a writer who reveals a confident respect for the craft of writing and is concerned with expressing common, meaningful experiences. Her stories are not escapist. They deal with disillusion and betrayal with the gauche sorrows of youth, with the consciousness of failure and self-deception, but they do so with a perception that enriches the reader’s experience.” 18

    Apart from the critical comment they offer, the bulk of these reviews confirm that with
Lives of Girls and Women
Munro’s career began to take a much larger shape than it had after
Dance
won the Governor General’s Award in 1969. With that award, her previously secret writer’s life was exposed, lending her a minor celebrity status in Victoria and among those who knew the Canadian literary scene. But the attention
Lives
got was another thing altogether. It was just as genuine as that earned by the first book, but coming as it did shortly after
Dance
, and resonating with the feminist temper of the times, while reaching an international audience through successive Canadian, U.S., and British editions,
Lives
fundamentally altered Munro’s status. With
Dance
Munro published afirst book that showcased her abilities.
Lives
demonstrated that Munro was capable of, as no less a figure than Levertov had noticed, a “short masterpiece.” It brought with it considerably more attention.
    That happened just as Munro was leaving her marriage, returning to Ontario, and confronting the need to live on her own and support herself for the first time. Although Munro recalls that at the time she had no expectations that writing would be enough and that she expected to get a regular job, it is clear that she pursued her work with greater zeal and focus as the marriage ended. She spent 1970 writing
Lives
in part as a way out, plotting a drastic change. In much the same way, she concentrated on the stories that became
Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You
in the fifteen months that followed her return to Victoria in 1972. During this time she wrote new stories but, in ways unique to that collection, she returned to previous attempts at novels and salvaged individual stories from these manuscripts. Acutely concerned with the ethical position of the writer just then, wondering over her own work as her life was changing, Munro produced some of her most starkly introspective pieces regarding her craft: “Material,” “Winter Wind,” “The Ottawa Valley,” and, though she kept it out of
Something
, “Home.” With the exception of “Material,” these are also among her most transparently autobiographical stories.
    Just as Munro was getting into this work, Kiil wrote her the letter in which he mentions “discontentment among Canadian writers.” With it he enclosed her money from
McCall’s
purchase of first U.S. serial rights to “Red Dress – 1946,” reporting also that the magazine wanted another from
Dance
but had not made a decision yet as to which one. After various other comments, he refers to a conversation Munro had with another person about “the work in progress” and comments, “Novels, of course, are more marketable but you must write what you do; and I know we can sell whatever you produce. If you think next fall is right for the new collection, I’d like to see the stories asap. because in this case I’d like to approximate simultaneous publication as closely as possible.” When he had called her to tell her about