Jane Actually

writing?”
    “It’s the story of a young woman, a writer like myself, writing at the end of the Great War. She’s writing about the war and her involvement.”
    “But she’s not like a soldier, I mean not if it’s World War I.”
    “No, she was a spy, in France,” Jane said, which was a surprise to her. She had not thought that far ahead in the story; it truly was just an experiment, an exercise for the left hand. But suddenly her heroine was a spy.
    “Wow, that sounds pretty interesting. I suppose she falls in love with a guy.”
    “Well yes, there is a romance.” Jane had not specifically meant to write a romance, but she enjoyed describing a book that she thought Tamara might enjoy.
    “It sounds very exciting, not like … I mean, the books you wrote …”
    “That’s all right Tamara. I realize I am not known for writing thrillers.”
    “So, do you know much about World War I? Oh, what a stupid question. You lived through it. Well I don’t mean lived. I mean you experienced it, didn’t you?”
    “I did and it was … it was during one of those periods where, perhaps understandably, I was despairing of mankind. It was all so familiar and reminded me of our long war with France, when I was alive, I mean. And here we were at war again, only now with France against Germany, which seemed incomprehensible because England’s ties with Germany were so many and so strong.”
    “And how’s it going? The writing I mean.”
    Jane was tempted to answer her question with a platitude—she’d heard that one writer had responded to the same question with the phrase “it’s a process.” And Jane had always been a furtive writer, loathe to divulge her progress to anyone. Any dancing she might have done was away from watchful eyes. But today she decided to be honest.
    “It’s not going well, and please don’t tell Melody because she’ll worry.”
    “Is there anything I can do to help? To make it easier for you to work. I realize … I realize that maybe I haven’t … that I haven’t been as open to you as I should.” Tamara put down her wine glass and sat upright. “I’m really kind of jealous you know. Or I was. I mean how can I compete with Jane Austen?”
    “Oh Tamara, how could you be so foolish. Melody loves you utterly and completely. You pierce her soul.” 1
    At these words Tamara’s eyes grew wide and the smile on her face made clear her appreciation of the sentiment. Granted Jane felt a little guilty for borrowing from her own work, but she knew Tamara was not a fan.
    “Thank you Jane. Melody’s kind of … well she’s never spoken like that … but you think that’s what she really thinks?”
    “You may depend on it.”
    Tamara reached in a pocket for a tissue and dried her eyes.
    “Uh, so what I was saying before. Is there some way I can help? I mean I don’t know how, but … I mean what’s the problem? Is it writer’s block?”
    “Ha! If it only were. I will tell you something that I don’t think I could tell anyone else. I’ve lost my voice. I don’t know how to write anymore.”
    “But you just wrote your sequel, I mean your completion,
Sandytown
.”
    “I finished that a century ago. I haven’t written anything new since.” Of course this was an overstatement of the facts. She had written many small stories and countless undeliverable letters to Cassandra.
    “Oh, OK, that’s a dry spell. Was it for lack of trying?”
    “Partially. I’ve seen so much since I died. So many wonderful and horrible things, but I’ve been apart from the world, just observing.”
    “But isn’t that what a writer does? They stand back and watch. I’ve always found it a little creepy, to be honest. Most of the authors Melody represents are … they’re kind of weird, just a little detached from reality.”
    Jane considered this. She knew that might be an apt description of her while alive.
    “So what else is going on in the novel you’re writing?”
    Jane briefly considered admitting to Tamara that she had written only a few opening paragraphs, but with a ready audience, she decided to set aside her caution and made up a story for Tamara, much like she’d done when she was much, much, much younger.
    1 In
Persuasion
, Austen’s last completed novel, Captain Wentworth says this of heroine Anne Elliot in a letter he sends her

The Real Jane Austen
Melody learns of Court’s book
    M elody looked at the press release for the third time, still willing the words to be different