Prologue

One summer, overtaken by a determination to better my circumstances, I enrolled in a meditation class. ‘It would help my anxiety,’ they told me, and calm the nerves I’d nurtured into adulthood. I settled into the humid room, ignored the middle aged white ladies, and endeavoured to breathe.

I touched my pulse points and counted, ‘One. Two. Three.’ At four a sense of clarity enveloped me, entirely alien. I saw someone: a head of pink hair, and a hint of the spy-bard’s mandolin, picked up after the war. He kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘Write my story. Now, before it is forgotten.’

‘Oh good,’ I thought, ‘I’ve finally gone mad.’

It would only occur to me later that all creatives—writers most especially—have their own version of “whimsy” (my new, kinder word for “mad”). I know this character does not exist, per se, but I could have told you anything about him. I was overstimulated, slightly worried my diagnoses were wrong, but ecstatic as I wrote everything I could.

Then I was absolutely, irreconcilably sad. No one else would ever see this person. Even if I wrote the most beautiful prose in the world, he would only ever be whole in my imagination.
 

Chapter One

By Jane’s Hand was a beautiful, intricate exploration of these precise emotions in three distinct acts.

The first of which had me exceedingly worried.

Playacting letters to her sister Cassandra, interspersed with merry folk songs about Irishmen, the three actors leaned into playful, witty interpretations of Jane. This was more interesting to me as a thought experiment than a theatrical experience. But as a theatrical experience, it felt discomforting, forcing me into a private part of Jane Austen’s life. I understand the desire to humanise such a looming figure of canon, but all I could think whilst I was being addressed as Cassandra was, ‘I’m not Cassandra’.

Making this more perplexing, the discomfort seemed to be without reason. I knew Austen was witty, observant, multifaceted. I was being shown one shiny piece of her personality, only to be presented with another when I got bored. I began listing men in my head—men who would never have to exhibit themselves for hungry, watchful eyes. Men who would never have to.

I understand the desire to humanise such a looming figure. Authors of traditional canon often blur into a confused farrago; often white, often male, always inscrutable. To see “Jane” dance a jig was more soothing than to see “Austen” reading in enigmatic silence. Why, then, did my skin itch when her actor looked at me?

The key here is I knew this was a play. I knew we were pretending. It was voyeurism. My entertainment hinged on how relatable a literary giant could become. I do not think this is good or bad. It was, quite simply, interesting to see a heroine of my childhood look so very similar to me.

My image of Jane Austen was challenged, and that is all I can say on the matter.
 

Chapter Two

Act two, however, made the introductory pains subside. Paying homage to the tradition of home plays (often featured in Austen’s novels) the actors used props to reconstruct tableaux as if they were being written on the spot.

Reproductions of infamous Pride and Prejudice scenes meant a cluster of theatregoers, inclined to think too well of themselves, could close their eyes and see spectres of our literary education newly lit. Stacking over each other, the lines tossed from Lizzie to Darcy to Mr. Collins replicated the fever of creation. No longer in pain on the outside; I was in on the joke of it all.

The interchangeability of the three actors, before frustrating me as I tried to determine its design, made sudden sense. Any and all exaggerated characterisations worked because they were now in an exaggerated space of creation. This was the desire to explore what otherwise cannot be explored. The revelry of creation. Lines which once haunted exam halls were now delicate, joyful proofs of a writer’s labour.
 

Chapter Three

Act three brought oscillation between rapture and isolation. The tone turned sombre as props were folded away, instruments set down, and exuberant playacting exchanged for lowlight and sentimental pause. A lady’s book and a gentleman’s hat, bundled into an unassuming box, was then offered to a faceless audience. Jane’s most intense endeavour.

The singular aloneness of creative aftermath will resonate with any creative. Constantly finding shiny pieces of yourself  becomes tiring. Especially for Jane, forced by the patriarchy to constantly justify herself, delivering piece after piece after piece. By Jane’s Hand is a chronicle of that delivery. For the elation it brings, and for the distress.

Faux intimacy with any creator will always curdle my insides, but I cannot deny that thrum of truth. I remembered that character in my head. ‘Write,’ he said, and I was scared I could not do him justice. Jane reminded me that fear is natural—it does not mean it should not be done.

Perhaps we should ask, with unflinching ego, “Which of my important things shall I tell you first?”