There are books that we read and, while we are reading them, we catch ourselves wondering if it is worth continuing, but we push on through because we occasionally catch a glimpse of something that pulls you along and teases you with a bit of hope. That was my experience with Bobcat and Other Stories, a short collection of short stories by Rebecca Lee. Years ago, when it was released, it was hailed by many as a bright and shining example of the talent Canada produces. It has largely been set aside since then, though it would be extreme to say it has been forgotten - every now and then you see the collection pop up in a new edition or on some list of the best short story collections of the past decade, or something of that sort. What caught me was the comparison it received, from at least one reviewer, to the works of Munro (one of my favourite living writers) and Chekhov (one of my favourite dead writers).
So I picked it up the other day and started reading the first story, Bobcat. And I read through it quite quickly. Surprisingly quickly. It was decent enough. Nothing particularly brave, but it had a few screws that turned in a nice direction, even if they didn’t end up getting deep enough into the wood to actually construct a story. So I leapt into the next story. I found myself with a similar feeling. And then the next. And then the next. I should have been suspect when, in one day, I read through five of the collection’s six stories, more than 160 pages, and put the book down to go to sleep with more desire to finish the book than to really examine whether or not the stories were any good.
And maybe two of them were good, the first and the last, with the 4 in between being slightly worse, but not in and of themselves bad. In each story, told from a first person perspective in a voice that sounded similar, with other characters that felt similar, with scenarios that felt a bit too similar, with a few metaphors (or were they symbols?) that were repeated a few times, in each story there was a promise of something that could have been good or maybe even very good, and then, in each story, before the ending arrived, and just as the ending was arriving, everything seemed to fizzle out. No great insight or importance was shared. Nothing was really acquired. I didn’t learn much, and nothing felt revelatory - which is to say that nothing was necessary. Why did I read this?
After finishing the fifth story the other night and before picking up and finishing the sixth story today I read through the short biographical blurb about Rebecca Lee at the back and discovered that she is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. I don’t know if that is a good thing or a bad thing, but for some reason I think it is a thing that shouldn’t necessarily be included in your writing bio. I also think that it is a fact of her life that is obvious in her writing; writing that, at times, gets to be too damned writerly about small details that one suspects only writers who spend their days composing sentences in their mind while walking the dog notice, all the while trying to come up with the most original way to describe something that is almost entirely ordinary. And I would say that a surprising amount of space, a lot of words, are devoted to those ordinary things that she wants use to believe are filled with importance. Maybe they are. Sometimes in the hands of an exceptional writer they are. Here I wasn’t convinced. And, going back to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop - which has a particular history of teaching mediocre writers good writing tips which they don’t then turn into good writing - most of the time the stories felt like assignments, something that filled a particular goal for a particular teacher and which didn’t in fact enhance art.
That isn’t to say that the writing here is a complete failure. There are sentences and descriptions of ordinary things that are quite lovely, that are quite impressive, special, and in the struggle of making true art, of becoming a writer whose descriptions, like those of Steinbeck or Golding or Lessing or Achebe or Woolf, are truly revelatory, you need to write a lot of bad ones. You need to find your groove, as it were. Hell, I’m trying to find my groove, as it were. But here, all too often the descriptions are just a fancy effort to sound like a good writer rather than actually be a good writer. Does that make sense? Do you understand what I’m saying? I don’t know, if I were Rebecca Lee, or if I were her editor, I would have called upon these six stories as her first ones to publish in a collection.
The problem, of course, is because of Munro, that great matriarch of Canadian literature, the one that lords over our landscape. I hold all short stories up to her standard, which isn’t ultimately fair, but is the only standard the literature should be held up to - that of pure, clean, wonderful excellence. If I hadn’t taken the time, while cycling home from the cafe where I finished the collection this afternoon, to unload it from my backpack and load it into one of the free front yard libraries that dot my neighbourhood, it would be interesting to sit back with the best of these - perhaps Bobcat, perhaps Fialta - and with the best of Munro - damned near anything from any of her collections, but for a more fair comparison let’s choose Walker Brothers Cowboy or The Office or Boys and Girls from Dance of the Happy Shades, her first story collection - and write a nice essay about what makes Munro so good and Lee so, seemingly, mediocre.
But mediocre is a mean word. And neither is it the most honest one. Because Rebecca Lee very well could write something lovely - you can see it in her that she has it - but she has to get out of her way for it to come out.