Page 53 of Inventing Mr Darcy

The last thing I see before the screen goes blank is the message:

You have 2,481 unread notifications.

NOT ONE-AND-TWENTY

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

That line, English poet Lord Byron’s meditation on literary celebrity, is the first thing that pops into my head as the plane takes off—though, in Byron’s case, infamous might be the better word.

Then again, I have no way of knowing what people have said about my work, so I suppose I should reserve judgment.

I’m aware of a certain irony in thinking about Lord Byron’s notoriety at this moment. He was Austen’s contemporary, and we know she read his work. But since he had nothing but contempt for novelists, he probably didn’t even know she existed. And now … she doesn’t.

Then again, it’s possible the solar flare wiped him out too. I turn toward Geoff, my lips parted with a question I can’t quite figure out how to frame.

He’s still talking, but something about my expression gives him pause. “Listen to me, nattering on about mince pies. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything important on Christmas Eve?”

And now, to the adrenaline rush of all those Wordstitch notifications, as well as my unanswered question about the continued relevance of a poet once described by his lover as mad, bad, and dangerous to know, I add the memory of Geoff’s strange expression as he stepped off the porch and also the conversation with Fisher that followed.

It might even be that I owe Geoff my thanks.

“Not at all,” I tell him.

Which, somehow, frees him to settle his hand on my hand, which is lying on the armrest between us, and give it a squeeze. “That’s lovely to hear.”

After half a moment, I return my hand to my lap and he resumes telling me about obscure British holiday customs and none of it means anything, except that our time in New York should be more amicable than I once expected.

Still, it’s a relief when the person to Geoff’s right butts in to ask a question about plum pudding and I’m free to let my thoughts wander back to Wordstitch. And Fisher.

What are the odds that:

1. one person found 2,481 typos?

2. all 2,481 people who opened First Impressions hated it?

3. one of those 2,481 notifications is from someone else who remembers Jane Austen and Pride and Prejudice?

Fisher could probably calculate the answers. I find myself almost wishing I’d paid more attention in math class.

Instead, my thoughts continue to spin and my anxiety spirals ever higher. Even after we land, I don’t have a private moment to check the Wordstitch app, what with the crowds in the airport and the taxi ride with Professor Pedersen looking over my shoulder this time, instead of Geoff. At the hotel, when I’m assigned to room 1817 (the year Austen died), I tell myself it’s not a bad omen, that it doesn’t mean anything at all. Finally, finally, I’m alone and able to swipe over to app notifications, where I see that the number has grown to 5,342.

And now I’m really afraid to look.

But maybe if I do something else while looking at the comments and reactions, it won’t be so bad. So I scroll with one hand while unpacking my suitcase with the other, the functional equivalent of watching a horror movie through your fingers.

And as it turns out, I didn’t really need to worry. It’s almost all good. I can’t stifle an incredulous smile at the number of times someone describes the plot of First Impressions as “different” or “unique,” when all I did was follow the most famous formula in the world—or what used to be the formula.

Its supposedly distinctive qualities, in fact, have made the story go a bit viral within the platform, pushing it to even more readers, most of whom seem enthralled by the idea of people holding out for love and happiness in their relationships. This is radical! one says when Elinor Bishop, the female protagonist, refuses wealthy Lord Driscoll’s first proposal of marriage, while another has left the heart-eyes emoji on every witty, snarky line she utters—and there are a lot. And quite a few comment on the fact she has and enjoys sex but doesn’t get punished for it with societal shunning or even death—like she would in the classics, one notes.

The groundswell of enthusiasm for my feisty heroine, her socially awkward hero, and their journey from enemies to lovers feels … well, revolutionary, to be honest. Was this how Jane Austen felt when she penned the story that helped shift her society’s focus from pragmatism to romance?

Of course, not everyone loves it. There are those who find it unrealistic or silly—like it’s a good idea for us to be basing important life decisions on our emotions, snipes one. And it’s difficult to tell how many people have actually read it. One story and a few hundred people on a free fiction app can’t really be expected to bring about a romance revolution.

Worst of all, I can’t completely shake free of these occasional twinges of guilt. Because it’s not my story—or at least, not entirely.

But maybe a pale imitation of Pride and Prejudice is better than no Pride and Prejudice at all?

At least none of the Wordstitch commenters has accused me of theft or betrayed any hint of shared knowledge. Whether they find my ideas daring or demented, as far as they’re all concerned, EllieB is an original.