A few months ago I was handed an advanced reader copy of A Good Hard Look by Ann Napolitano. I had no idea what to expect outside of the fact that Flannery O’Connor was a character in the novel. I couldn’t put it down once I started reading it! And Nan couldn’t put it down either. Here’s some of what she had to say about A Good Hard Look:
. . . One last thing which struck me as noteworthy about this novel, and again, being familiar with O’Connor’s stories, enables me to make this observation: grace and redemption, maybe not in their full forms, but certainly in small doses, do ring true in A Good Hard Look, for some of the characters do find a way through their chaos to befriend and help their human, as well as animal friends. Finally, I would also surmise that Napolitano also handles Flannery, the person, with respect, especially her debilitating bouts with the disease of lupus, which finally took her life in 1962. This is a novel which Mississippians and other Southerners should read, for it does take “a good hard look” at one of our very most remarkable and talented Southern writers.
We are proud to have selected A Good Hard Look as our July First Editions Club pick.
Tomorrow evening Ann Napolitano will be joining us at Lemuria for a signing (5.00) and reading (5.30).
I’ll give you a taste of the novel and Ann Napolitano’s own story by sharing part of an interview between Sarah Hutson of Penguin and Ann Napolitano. They were kind enough to share it with us in full, but do join us tomorrow!
Did you know from the beginning that Flannery O’Connor would feature so prominently in your novel?
When I started A Good Hard Look, I had no idea Flannery O’Connor would come anywhere near the novel. If you’d told me she would be one of the characters, I would have said you were crazy. I had no aspiration to write historical fiction and I hadn’t read any of Flannery’s work in about a decade.
Initially, the book was about a character called Melvin Whiteson, who lived in New York in the present day. I had the idea of this very wealthy man who’d been given every opportunity, but didn’t know what to do with those opportunities. I was interested in the question of how people choose to live their lives.
The novel wasn’t working though; I think Melvin was more of an idea than a character. It was about a year into the book that Flannery O’Connor showed up out of the blue—creatively speaking—though in hindsight, I can see that she embodies for me this idea of a “life well-lived”. Her appearance changed everything, of course. The time period, the setting, the heartbeat of the novel. I think she also provided the contrast that Melvin required to come to life as a character, and really, to shape the rest of the narrative.
Have you always been a fan?
I read her stories in college, like every other dutiful English major. The stories awed me for their precision, their fierceness of thought, their grim beauty. I didn’t love the stories, though—they seemed too harsh; they felt so alien to me, as a northern, somewhat gentle, novice writer.
My true fandom began my senior year, when I was assigned the collection of her letters, The Habit of Being. Flannery’s letters are wonderful—she’s irreverent and sarcastic and kind and generous. She’s accessible, and even sweet in a way you’d never guess from her fiction. I fell in love with her then.
I also connected with the content of the letters, which spoke directly to the circumstances of my life. Flannery chronicled her battle with lupus; when I read the letters, I was also sick. I’d been diagnosed with the Epstein-Barr virus, an auto-immune disease, six months earlier. As it turned out, I would be ill for the next three years, and the symptoms had already dissembled my highly active, twenty-year-old life.
I had what Oprah would probably call an “A-ha moment” while reading those letters. Flannery wrote about coming to terms with her changed situation, and deciding to focus her limited energy where it would matter most—in her writing. I consciously sized up my own life in a similar manner. I had always loved writing, but I lacked the confidence to declare myself a writer.
After I graduated, I planned to work in publishing, or something book-related. I would surround myself with other people’s words, and maybe write my own in secret, as a hobby. But my illness, and Flannery’s example, offered up a new clarity. I was able to appreciate, in a way my obnoxiously healthy twenty-year-old peers couldn’t, the real brevity of life. I could see how important it was to make each moment meaningful, and to make my life matter somehow. Because of Flannery, I decided to become a writer.
How did you go about creating Flannery, the character?
When she showed up in the novel—which felt right, intuitively—I was terrified. I did a lot of research, of course. I started by reading everything I could get my hands on. I re-read Flannery’s stories, her essays and two novels. I read the one existing biography on her, and several critical essays about her work. I visited Andalusia (the Georgia farm where she lived with her mother) and walked all over Milledgeville.
The real answer though is that it took me years to create “my Flannery”. I was so scared to misrepresent her that I avoided going into her head for a long time. I thought that if I depicted her from a distance, I would be less likely to mess her up. Not shockingly, that was a limited path. It was only when I truly committed to her presence in the story that she came to life.
As someone who has always lived in the Northeast, did you have any hesitation writing about one of the greats of southern literature?
Yes. When I showed the first draft to one of my closest writer friends, who happens to be from Alabama, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Really? You’re going to write about the South?” She meant it as a challenge, and I took it as such.
The South has a rich, deep history, and that extends to their literary history. If you think about it, many of our greatest American writers are Southern—William Faulkner, Harper Lee, Mark Twain, Alice Walker, Eudora Welty, Katherine Anne Porter, Carson McCullers, to name a few—and the South takes a rightful pride in that heritage. You could even say that they’re territorial about it, and I certainly felt the risk in not only placing the book in the South, but in taking on one of their literary icons. I moved forward simply because I felt compelled to do so. But the book took seven years to write, in part because I knew I would hate to be accused of disrespecting the legacy I was treading on.
How did you go about creating Flannery, the character?
When she showed up in the novel—which felt right, intuitively—I was terrified. I did a lot of research, of course. I started by reading everything I could get my hands on. I re-read Flannery’s stories, her essays and two novels. I read the one existing biography on her, and several critical essays about her work. I visited Andalusia (the Georgia farm where she lived with her mother) and walked all over Milledgeville.
The real answer though is that it took me years to create “my Flannery”. I was so scared to misrepresent her that I avoided going into her head for a long time. I thought that if I depicted her from a distance, I would be less likely to mess her up. Not shockingly, that was a limited path. It was only when I truly committed to her presence in the story that she came to life.
As someone who has always lived in the Northeast, did you have any hesitation writing about one of the greats of southern literature?
Yes. When I showed the first draft to one of my closest writer friends, who happens to be from Alabama, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Really? You’re going to write about the South?” She meant it as a challenge, and I took it as such. The South has a rich, deep history, and that extends to their literary history. If you think about it, many of our greatest American writers are Southern—William Faulkner, Harper Lee, Mark Twain, Alice Walker, Eudora Welty, Katherine Anne Porter, Carson McCullers, to name a few—and the South takes a rightful pride in that heritage. You could even say that they’re territorial about it, and I certainly felt the risk in not only placing the book in the South, but in taking on one of their literary icons. I moved forward simply because I felt compelled to do so. But the book took seven years to write, in part because I knew I would hate to be accused of disrespecting the legacy I was treading on.
Your characters are so vivid—and beautifully and tragically human: Cookie, the perfect Southern wife, who is afraid to look too closely at herself or others; Lona, the seamstress, who sleepwalks through life, until she makes the fateful decision to feed her own needs and desires; Flannery, whose sharp perception and ironclad devotion to writing pushes most people away; Melvin, the fortunate son, who is content to simply be content until he suffers the greatest of losses. Do you have a favorite character—or is that akin to asking a parent which child they like best?
It’s interesting—about a month ago a wonderful website called This Recording had a piece on Flannery that included a few photos of her I had never seen (a feat, because during my research for the novel I thought I’d seen them all) and I found myself tearing up. I was surprised at how emotional I became, and I wanted to understand why my response was so strong. How had my heart gotten this wrapped up in Flannery? Was it unhealthy to feel this attached to her? What did it mean?
What I concluded was that if I were able to see a photo of Melvin or Cookie or Lona, I would likely respond the same way. Most writers never get a chance to see photographs of their characters, because they’re fictional. My characters are equally real to me, even though Flannery is the only one that’s actually real. Does this mean I’ll cry every time I see a photograph of her? I certainly hope not.
How did you go about creating Flannery, the character?
When she showed up in the novel—which felt right, intuitively—I was terrified. I did a lot of research, of course. I started by reading everything I could get my hands on. I re-read Flannery’s stories, her essays and two novels. I read the one existing biography on her, and several critical essays about her work. I visited Andalusia (the Georgia farm where she lived with her mother) and walked all over Milledgeville.
The real answer though is that it took me years to create “my Flannery”. I was so scared to misrepresent her that I avoided going into her head for a long time. I thought that if I depicted her from a distance, I would be less likely to mess her up. Not shockingly, that was a limited path. It was only when I truly committed to her presence in the story that she came to life.
As someone who has always lived in the Northeast, did you have any hesitation writing about one of the greats of southern literature?
Yes. When I showed the first draft to one of my closest writer friends, who happens to be from Alabama, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Really? You’re going to write about the South?” She meant it as a challenge, and I took it as such. The South has a rich, deep history, and that extends to their literary history. If you think about it, many of our greatest American writers are Southern—William Faulkner, Harper Lee, Mark Twain, Alice Walker, Eudora Welty, Katherine Anne Porter, Carson McCullers, to name a few—and the South takes a rightful pride in that heritage. You could even say that they’re territorial about it, and I certainly felt the risk in not only placing the book in the South, but in taking on one of their literary icons. I moved forward simply because I felt compelled to do so. But the book took seven years to write, in part because I knew I would hate to be accused of disrespecting the legacy I was treading on.
Your characters are so vivid—and beautifully and tragically human: Cookie, the perfect Southern wife, who is afraid to look too closely at herself or others; Lona, the seamstress, who sleepwalks through life, until she makes the fateful decision to feed her own needs and desires; Flannery, whose sharp perception and ironclad devotion to writing pushes most people away; Melvin, the fortunate son, who is content to simply be content until he suffers the greatest of losses. Do you have a favorite character—or is that akin to asking a parent which child they like best?
It’s interesting—about a month ago a wonderful website called This Recording had a piece on Flannery that included a few photos of her I had never seen (a feat, because during my research for the novel I thought I’d seen them all) and I found myself tearing up. I was surprised at how emotional I became, and I wanted to understand why my response was so strong. How had my heart gotten this wrapped up in Flannery? Was it unhealthy to feel this attached to her? What did it mean?
What I concluded was that if I were able to see a photo of Melvin or Cookie or Lona, I would likely respond the same way. Most writers never get a chance to see photographs of their characters, because they’re fictional. My characters are equally real to me, even though Flannery is the only one that’s actually real. Does this mean I’ll cry every time I see a photograph of her? I certainly hope not.
How did you go about creating Flannery, the character?
When she showed up in the novel—which felt right, intuitively—I was terrified. I did a lot of research, of course. I started by reading everything I could get my hands on. I re-read Flannery’s stories, her essays and two novels. I read the one existing biography on her, and several critical essays about her work. I visited Andalusia (the Georgia farm where she lived with her mother) and walked all over Milledgeville.
The real answer though is that it took me years to create “my Flannery”. I was so scared to misrepresent her that I avoided going into her head for a long time. I thought that if I depicted her from a distance, I would be less likely to mess her up. Not shockingly, that was a limited path. It was only when I truly committed to her presence in the story that she came to life.
As someone who has always lived in the Northeast, did you have any hesitation writing about one of the greats of southern literature?
Yes. When I showed the first draft to one of my closest writer friends, who happens to be from Alabama, she raised an eyebrow and said, “Really? You’re going to write about the South?” She meant it as a challenge, and I took it as such. The South has a rich, deep history, and that extends to their literary history. If you think about it, many of our greatest American writers are Southern—William Faulkner, Harper Lee, Mark Twain, Alice Walker, Eudora Welty, Katherine Anne Porter, Carson McCullers, to name a few—and the South takes a rightful pride in that heritage. You could even say that they’re territorial about it, and I certainly felt the risk in not only placing the book in the South, but in taking on one of their literary icons. I moved forward simply because I felt compelled to do so. But the book took seven years to write, in part because I knew I would hate to be accused of disrespecting the legacy I was treading on.
Your characters are so vivid—and beautifully and tragically human: Cookie, the perfect Southern wife, who is afraid to look too closely at herself or others; Lona, the seamstress, who sleepwalks through life, until she makes the fateful decision to feed her own needs and desires; Flannery, whose sharp perception and ironclad devotion to writing pushes most people away; Melvin, the fortunate son, who is content to simply be content until he suffers the greatest of losses. Do you have a favorite character—or is that akin to asking a parent which child they like best?
It’s interesting—about a month ago a wonderful website called This Recording had a piece on Flannery that included a few photos of her I had never seen (a feat, because during my research for the novel I thought I’d seen them all) and I found myself tearing up. I was surprised at how emotional I became, and I wanted to understand why my response was so strong. How had my heart gotten this wrapped up in Flannery? Was it unhealthy to feel this attached to her? What did it mean?
What I concluded was that if I were able to see a photo of Melvin or Cookie or Lona, I would likely respond the same way. Most writers never get a chance to see photographs of their characters, because they’re fictional. My characters are equally real to me, even though Flannery is the only one that’s actually real. Does this mean I’ll cry every time I see a photograph of her? I certainly hope not.
Last night I was watching the WAPT 10:00 news and they ran a story about the Borders at Dogwood closing. When they ran teasers that said, “local bookstore chain closing,” well, that made me sit up and really take notice: Borders . . . local? I grabbed my computer and checked out WAPT’s facebook page and noticed that they had posted a story about the closing and as I read through the comments there were no mentions of Lemuria. So I posted a comment myself:
My debut novel, The Reservoir, a historical mystery, came out three weeks ago, and so far I’ve presented it in seven independent bookstores, with another eight lined up for the weeks ahead. All of these events have been very positive experiences, with friendly staffs and enthusiastic audiences. By offering readings in which new authors such as myself can bring out their work, the indies are helping keep the book industry alive and thriving. Can you imagine if there were no bars and cafes for new bands to debut their sound and gain local followings, if all music was expected to make a sudden leap to coliseums and concert halls? Imagine the lack of variety if artists had no local galleries to show their work.
At the end of June last year, Adam Ross came to Lemuria for an early stop on his first book’s tour. 
Perhaps the best argument about the poverty of our public understanding of the Civil Rights Movement comes in Jeanne Theoharis’ essay about Rosa Parks and Coretta Scott King. These two iconic figures, who died just a few months apart in 2005 and 2006, received unprecedented public memorials. But in both cases, most of their careers were ignored in the numerous tributes and eulogies.
Coretta Scott King was not simply a dutiful wife, but rather was a longtime peace activist who pushed her husband to come out against the Vietnam War. While she ended her own autobiography with her husband’s death, Coretta spent the next four decades continuing to fight against injustice and war. When looked at closely, the careers of these celebrated women are far more compelling that the bit parts they are given in the civil rights narrative.
In the end, Crosby and her colleagues seek to change the way the civil rights movement is taught and understood in America. Crosby points to the seminal 
Thank you to Dr. Stuart Rockoff for kindly sharing his review with Lemuria Blog. He currently serves as the Vice-President of the Southern Jewish Historical Society and is working on a general history of Jewish life in the South.