P.D. James: From Bureaucrat to Writing Royalty

Nothing that ever happens to a novelist is ever wasted. ~P.D. James
I have a love-hate affair with crime novels. As a girl, I couldn't get enough of the Nancy Drew stories. By the age of 13, I'd read my way through the adult mystery shelves at my local library.

But as I grew older, they lost their fascination. Good mysteries are truly hard to find. There's nothing worse than a dull whodunnit.

Then, on a whim, I picked up P.D. James' Original Sin on a remainder table. Five hundred pages later, I closed it and thought, "Didn't see that coming." I was hooked.

Original Sin was the ninth in her series about poet-policeman Adam Dalgliesh, commenced in 1962. She wrote it at age 42, while still in civil service and supporting an ill husband. I developed a deep admiration for her.

In 2001, just before Original Sin was published, she said, "I have lived with him [Dalgliesh] for 40 years. And I have now decided he and I will die at the same time. I shan’t kill him off."

Too many books and too little time later, I lost track of P.D. James. I wondered if she and Detective Dalgliesh were still around. (Just where does time go? How do we come to forgot about the small things that delight us, like a suspenseful book?)

I was happy to discover that she's almost 90 and still going strong, and recently gave an interview to the Telegraph UK at a book festival in Devon.

"A WRITER NEEDS AS MUCH TRAUMA AS SHE CAN TAKE"

Phyllis Dorothy James was born in 1920 in Oxford and educated at Cambridge High School for Girls. She was just 15 when her mother was committed to a mental hospital. James has little memory of the time before this happened. She does, however, remember always wanting to be a writer, particularly a mystery writer. When she first heard of Humpty Dumpty, she asked: “Did he fall or was he pushed?”

James left school at 17 and got a job in the tax office. When she was 21, she married Connor Bantry White, a young medical student. They had two daughters.

WHEN A BELOVED COMPANION BECOMES A TOTAL STRANGER

World War II broke out, and Connor went to India and Africa with the Royal Army Medical Corps. He returned a broken man, suffering from schizophrenia. He never worked again and spent the next 20 years in and out of mental institutions.

She says, "Only those who have lived with the mental illness of someone they love can understand. Another human being who was once a beloved companion can become not only a stranger, but occasionally a malevolent stranger."

James took government jobs to support her family, first with the National Health Services and then with the Home Office.

At one point, she realized that she might never a break unless she made it: "It was sometime in the mid 1950s when I suddenly realised that there was never going to be a convenient moment to write the first book. You become a writer by writing. I had to make it happen."

Connor died in 1964, when they both were both 44. James never remarried.

EIGHTEEN YEARS TO OVERNIGHT SUCCESS

James wrote in the early mornings before setting off for her job as a hospital administrator. Although the first Dalgliesh mystery was published in 1962, fame and fortune didn't come until she retired from the Home Office 18 years later, with Innocent Blood, her eighth novel.

She has no regrets about keeping that steady paycheck coming in: "I had done more reading, I had done more thinking, I had done more living. It has been extremely useful being in the mainstream of working life." She administered five psychiatric clinics for the NHS and worked in criminal law for the Home Office.

Until age 87, she had few health problems. Then she broke her hip, and while recovering, had a heart attack in her dentist's chair. "I was extraordinarily lucky with health. I really didn't feel particularly old... We don't grow gradually into old age. Throughout our lives, we're on a plateau and then suddenly, whoosh! We're five years older, and then we're on a plateau again."

James incorporated her recovery experience into the latest Dalgliesh mystery, The Private Patient, which takes place in a remote plastic surgery clinic.

Other settings from her novels include a secluded Cornish island, a decrepit medieval tower turned asylum, and a private museum with a wing dedicated to grisley killings between World Wars I and II. (Only in England!)

CRIME FICTION'S GRAND DAME BECOMES OFFICIAL

P.D. James has five grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren. She looks like everyone's granny, except for that "arsenic and old lace" gleam in her eyes.

In 1983, she was made an OBE (officer of the Order of the British Empire) and in 1991, a life peer (Baroness James of Holland Park).

Baroness James regards the 21st century a challenge when it comes to finding motives for her antagonists. "Dear old Agatha Christie had A murder B because A was having an affair and thought B would tell. Now, of course, people write about their affairs in the Sunday papers."

WHAT LATER BLOOMER'S CAN LEARN FROM P.D. JAMES

  • Nothing that ever happens to a novelist (or anyone else for that matter) is ever wasted.
  • You absolutely can take care of your people and pursue your creative dream. It may be hard and it may take longer, but just keep at it.
SOURCES

PD James 'frightened' by pace of technological change. The Telegraph: 11 July 2010
PD James: Heroine with a taste for life. The Independent: 29 August 2008
'A writer needs as much trauma as she can take'. The Sunday Times: 17 August 2008
A Mind to Murder. The Telegraph: 05 March 2001
'We regard murder with fascination'. The Guardian: 04 March 2001
The Salon Interview. Salon.com: 02/26/98
Amazon's P.D. James Page

On Blogging, Books and Dug The Dog

Last Christmas, my husband gave me Pixar's animated feature UP. "You remind me of Ellie," he said. "And I want us to grow old together." I almost started crying.

But I secretly feel like Dug the golden retriever, uber-geek among alpha dogs. He tells grouchy Carl, "My name is Dug. I have just met you and I love you."

Dug talks incessantly, except when distracted. And he's easily distracted: "My master made me this collar. He is a good and smart master and he made me this collar so that I may talk – SQUIRREL!!"

Dug stares transfixed at a tree. But it's a false alarm.

1.

Recently I went down like a ton of bricks  –  a chronic pain syndrome that renders me useless from time to time.

After several days, I dragged myself to the computer and checked my email. Then I just sat there. Twitter? Facebook? One of the 40-some blogs I follow? (How do people follow hundreds?)

The screen blurred. My fingers twitched. I felt unfocused and distracted and hadn't even opened a web browser.

I'd put it down to illness, except this wasn't the first time. And it's become more pronounced recently, since I started blogging and following so many blogs. I felt like Dug, when Russell the Boy Scout adjusted his collar:

Hey would you-
(click)
-cuerdo con tigo-
(click)
I use that collar-
(click)
-watashi wa hanashi ma-
(click)
-to talk with, I would be happy if you stopped.

Inspired by Jennifer Louden, I decided to take a digital sabbatical. My conditions of enoughness:
  • Abstain from Facebook, Twitter and blogs
  • Answer personal email only, once each evening
  • Do something creative that doesn't involve a computer or a skillet 
The universe said YES! As my pain subsided, I got the mother of all bladder infections. It lasted over a week. (On my list of liquids to avoid, I now rank unsweetened cranberry juice just above antifreeze.)

But at least it gave me time to reread Nicholas Carr's "Is Google Making Us Stoopid?" in the bathroom.

2.

Yup, the bathroom library still holds that 2008 issue of The Atlantic. I reread it now and then for reassurance, though I seldom get past paragraph two:
Over the past few years I've had an uncomfortable sense that someone, or something, has been tinkering with my brain . . . I'm not thinking the way I used to think. I can feel it most strongly when I'm reading. Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. . . Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I'm always dragging my wayward brain back to the text.
"Excuse me, Igor. Is that one mine?"
This time it didn't work. I didn't need to empathize. I needed to know why my brain feels like a shelf specimen in the lab of Young Frankenstein. . . .

Please check out the rest of the post at my main site. Thanks!

Ladies, Know Your Limits!

Just had to reinstate Girls' Friday with this bit of satire from the BBC's Harry Enfield and Chums, which ran during the 1990s. Love those Brits - every country should have a "ghoul standard!"

Then pop over to Mrs. Somerville: First Scientist, about a girl whose daddy feared she'd end up in a straight jacket...

Eugenia West Blooms Again!

I love Eugenia Lovett West's tale because she's a late bloomer twice over, at ages 56 and 84.

West graduated from Sarah Lawrence College in 1944, then immediately got hitched to her sweetheart, a dashing fighter pilot. They had four children, which kept her busy for a decade or three.

West did some local newspaper work during that time, but “got tired of covering the new sewage plant.”

WEST PUBLISHED HER FIRST NOVEL IN 1979 AT AGE 56

That book, a historical gothic entitled The Ancestors Cry Out, sounds fascinating:
“In 1880 a young woman has mysterious reasons for visiting a sugar plantation on a lush Caribbean island, the site of a violent and bloody slave rebellion in 1831” (description from Augustine Funnel Books).
West then spent almost 30 years “switching genres until I found the one that was right for me.” She finally fell for mystery.