The Woman in the Library

“As for your enquiries about how my own book is coming: Well, I spent Friday at the library. I wrote a thousand words and deleted fifteen hundred. Regardless, the Boston Public Library is a nice spot in which to be stood up by the muse.”

This scene allows Gentill to characterize Leo A as a thwarted writer with pretensions to the greatness of famous American writers who worked in the library, an important symbol for writing and reading, before him. When Hannah later sets the first scene of the story-within-a-story in the same place, the identical settings show that—unlike Leo—Hannah is capable of writing both what she knows and what she has likely only imagined or heard about secondhand.

“I am a bricklayer without drawings, laying words in sentences, sentences into paragraphs, allowing my walls to twist and turn on whim. There is no framework, just bricks interlocked to support each other into a story. I have no idea what I’m actually building, or if it will stand.”

Freddie Kincaid is a pantser, and the metaphor here is a poetic description of what that approach to writing looks like. The possibility that the wall will collapse is a reference to the risk that comes with pantsing, which is that the plots and characters one develops while drafting without a plan may be dead ends.

“And so we go to the Map Room to found a friendship, and I have my first coffee with a killer.”

As Leo A later notes, this powerful sentence is foreshadowing and an excellent hook that shows off Hannah’s writing skills. That hook is also a sentence that announces Hannah’s preferred genre for her novel—a whodunit, not the realistic crime novel Leo A pushes her to write with his feedback.

“It feels a little indecent to write so well in the wake of tragedy. But I do. The story of strangers bonded by a scream.”

This quote reflects one of the dilemmas of Writing What You Know. For Freddie, writing what she knows means benefitting creatively from the terror and suffering of another person. Despite her ethical qualms, she writes the story, with the implication that the writer’s responsibility to their craft trumps ordinary ethical concerns. As events in the story-within-story and the frame narrative unfold, the dissolution of the boundary between reality and imagination makes it harder for the writers in the book to maintain that stance.

“‘So, this is Isaac’s story?’ I ask, tentatively, because I’m not sure he wants to talk about it. I know he’s writing about it, but that’s different. Words are put down in solitude; there is a strange privacy to those disclosures. Time to get used to the revelation before readers are necessarily taken into your confidence.”

Freddie describes her sense of the relationship between the writer and their texts and the writer and her readers. There are numerous passages about the nature of reading and writing, and passages such of these make The Woman in the Library metafiction that encourages readers to think about what texts are and what they say about readers and writers.

“I knew a guy who used to plot his work like Cain. He was a cop, so that might have had something to do with it. And he was a control freak…planned everything, left nothing to chance. His name was Wil Saunders. You won’t have heard of him—he never finished his novel.”

Wil Saunders is the name of Hannah’s beta reader masquerading as Leo A at this moment in the novel. Leo A is describing himself to Hannah, although she doesn’t know that as she reads his email. This self-reference only becomes important if the reader re-reads or reconsiders the frame text, making this a metatextual moment that encourages critical thinking about plot. The self-reference is also characterization. This is Leo A’s joke on Hannah, one in which he affirms his belief that he is cleverer than she is.

“Might one of them have killed her? The last thought jolts me. My characters are too connected to the real people who inspired them, and those real people are my friends. New, but already beloved, wrapped in the excited crush of friendship’s beginning, untarnished by the annoyances, disappointments, and minor betrayals which come with the passing of time.”

Freddie articulates one of the risks of Writing What You Know. Because she is too close to the subjects that inspire her writing, it is hard for her to draw the line between reality and her imagination. The real friends she encounters are impediments to writing more realistic fiction in her work-in-progress. This internal conflict mirrors the struggle between Leo A and Hannah over realism in Hannah’s novel.

“And, incidentally, by way of interest, I read in The Globe yesterday that Alexandra Gainsborough—that agent who turned down the opus—passed away. An accident of some sort. Two days ago she was vibrant and powerful, she had the power to realize or kill dreams, and today she herself is dead. I sent condolences, of course. It’s funny how things work out sometimes.”

It is unclear if Leo A played a hand in the agent’s death, but his glee over her death is one of the first pivots in his character, one that reveals his misogyny and distorted ideas about justice and punishment. His idea that there is some cosmic irony—irony in which events unfold in an unexpected way that may indicate the existence of fate or a higher power—shows his inflated sense of self.

“‘Words have meaning. I suppose who the author is, what he’s done might change that meaning.’

‘Isn’t meaning more to do with the reader?’

‘No...a story is about leading a reader to meaning. The revelation is theirs, but we show them the way. I suppose the morality of the writer influences whether you can trust what they are showing you.’”

Cain makes the first and last statements in response to Freddie’s question about whether the morality of the writer should change how the reader receives that writer’s work. Cain and Freddie have different notions about The Power of Reading and Writing. Cain believes that the writer exercises the greatest amount of control over the meaning of a text, and he is hesitant to accept the idea that anything outside of the text—including the reader—can undercut that power. Freddie cedes more control to the reader as a powerful force in determining meaning. These discussions are metatextual ones that encourage the reader to think through how they interact with texts, including the novel.

“I am writing more fluidly than ever. Perhaps my muse is fear.”

Leo A’s reaction to the COVID pandemic is to feel creatively inspired by the spectacle of mass death and human suffering. His comment is characterization that shows his connection to reality and others may be tenuous; Hannah and readers should at this point assume that he is an unreliable reader and narrator. Despite the uncomfortable notion of writing needing fear and death to be creative, his perspective on creativity and extreme emotional states echoes the impact of the scream on Freddie’s creativity. That connection between Freddie and Leo A is one that provokes the reader to think about the ethical implications of Writing What You Know.

“I’m a novelist, Mr. Stills, not a reporter. Your confidentiality clause does not preclude me using your client as inspiration.”

The episode with Mrs. Weinbaum pretending to be a doctor and sewing up his stitches inspires Cain creatively. His response to the agents’ attempts to control what he can do with this experience creates another opportunity for the reader to consider what it really means to Write What You Know. Cain, who has already published a blockbuster novel based on his murder of his stepfather and imprisonment, comes down on the side that any experience is fair game for inspiration.

“There were bits of glass embedded in the wound…I don’t think you mentioned that in your description. The shards caught the light and glinted in the blood.”

Leo A describes a person who is likely one of his victims. This scene is one where it becomes clear that he may be something more than an unusually unlucky bystander to crimes. He sends Hannah photos, cementing her belief that he may be actively engaged in violence. He presents the detail about the aesthetic properties of the glass in the victim’s wounds as a realistic detail Hannah should include as she describes Cain’s wound. His contribution shows both that he is so literal a thinker that he cannot imagine the scene unless he creates the scene in reality, and it also shows his desire for Hannah to write gritty crime fiction instead of a whodunit with cozy and romantic touches.

“Ms. Tigone will make you immediately aware of any impressions she may have gained through her contact with Leo Johnson as to his location, true identity, or any future criminal acts or intentions. You will indemnify Ms. Tigone and ensure that she is held harmless against any action, criminal or civil, which arises out of her continued correspondence with Leo Johnson.”

Hannah wades into ethically murky waters when she proposes that she continue writing her novel to provoke Leo A enough that he might reveal who he is. When she enters into the agreement with the FBI—one she proposes since the previous message from the FBI was to discontinue contact with Leo A—the nature of what her text is and its purpose change. She includes more violent episodes in the story-within-a-story from this moment on. The letter from the FBI is also one of the ways Gentill adds tension to the frame narrative. With the exchange of letters, the purpose of the email correspondence between Hannah and her obnoxious beta reader is transformed into an inverted detective story with thriller touches, one in which the suspense comes from figuring out how the killer kills and how to capture the killer.

“I’m not sure about anything except that certainty is overrated.”

Freddie makes this statement when she gives in to her attraction to Cain, despite the many red flags his behavior and lies should throw up for her. The rapid movement of their connection from attraction to love is implausible, and that development may reflect the ways in which Hannah distorts her text to provoke Leo A. The reader can’t be certain if the scene unfolds this way to entice Leo A, or if Hannah is simply a writer who engages in cliché. The ambiguity around how much influence Leo A has as a reader encourages the reader to think critically about how they read.

“After all, how are you to know you like killing people until you have taken a life and in doing so discovered the incomparable thrill of holding existence in your hands and snuffing it out?”

Most people need not kill to discover if they like or don’t like killing. This statement by Leo A is characterization that shows his distorted relationship with reality and gives the reader insight into why he has to kill to write about it. Leo A lacks the creative powers and empathy to write about murder without committing it. He can only write what he knows.

“The resultant novella had been a kind of scream, pain and guilt and hope with a denouement of desperate and exhausted hope. That it had won the Sinclair had stunned me as much as anyone, and now, if I allow myself to think about it, I worry that it was all I had. There is no more pain to draw upon.”

Freddie articulates the fear of writers who get their start by writing what they know—maybe they won’t be inspired or creative enough after that to create work that isn’t reliant on personal experience.

“Do not be afraid of taking your writing to dark places, my dear. The world is getting darker, and murder now needs to compete with disease, neglect, and the inherent selfishness of man.”

Leo A’s tone here is patronizing and marks the steady shift from his self-identity as a helpful beta reader to demanding editor and collaborator. His vision of reality is a dark one, and he believes it is the duty of the writer to mirror that darkness. The belief that creative works need to mirror reality makes sense for a writer who is committed to realism.

“The pages of the notebook are made of a single sheet, concertina-folded. I generally use them after the novel is written, to map out the narrative so that I can see the whole story in a glance and make sure that those threads that need tying up are in fact tied up. Now I plot everything I know from before and since the scream, drawing lines of connection between events and people. Lines between Cain and Boo, Cain and Caroline, Cain and Whit, Whit and Caroline, Marigold and Whit. It begins to resemble one of Cain’s story webs.”

Leo A’s notion of himself as a writer has created the conditions necessary for him to turn into a serial killer. Freddie’s exploration of her creativity is in direct contrast with Leo A’s. Here, she applies what she knows about writing to clarify her understanding of the reality of the events over the month since she met Cain, Whit, and Marigold. The way she puts together her outline shows the influence of Cain on her as a writer, however.

“Just think how much easier it would be for Cain to elude the police if he and everyone else were wearing masks. None of us are identifiable. That, combined with the current civil unrest, is a crime writer’s dream! This time, this horror, is a gift, Hannah. It would be arrogant and rude to refuse it. In the hope of showing you what this work could be, I have amended your earlier chapters to set them firmly in the midst of this disease. Please find a new version of your manuscript attached.”

Leo A’s aggressive campaign to control Hannah’s writing rises to new heights. He usurps her writer’s prerogative to write what she wants and how she wants by creating an entirely new text that is likely a gritty murder mystery. The underlying assumption in his instruction to her is that one has to experience something to write about it. Leo A’s assumptions show how limited he is as a writer and how dangerous he is.

“You’ve mirrored our relationship in that between Freddie and my namesake. He is her advisor, honest and true. She can turn to him as you can turn to me. I’m moved to tears to know that this is the way you feel. Corresponding with a celebrated author like yourself is a privilege that I feel keenly. I have learned so much from you; I hope you have learned a little from me. And I have been content to simply be your devoted beta reader. But the idea that we could be more, that we are more, is a dream. Oh, fuck this pandemic. If not for it, you would be here. I would have been your guide; I would have shown you the unimaginable.”

Leo A’s thanks to Hannah about her portrayal of Leo B shows just how disconnected he is from reality. Leo B is different from Leo A because Leo B encourages Freddie to run away from violence and the more chaotic parts of human experience, while Leo A pushes Hannah to be complicit in his increasingly violent acts. Leo B may or may not be a stalker at this point in the text, but his warning about Cain is a rational one. Leo A’s declaration that he and Hannah are thwarted soulmates who would be together were it not for the pandemic is not rational. This is a chilling moment that makes even clearer what a threat Leo A’s divorce from reality is to Hannah’s safety.

“I didn’t fail to notice the proliferation of hoodies in this chapter. I’m hurt by the churlishness of it—I’m only trying to help. You’re setting this book in America—you cannot ignore race. It needs to be declared. If a character is not white, you cannot treat him as though he is. It’s simply absurd. And if he’s white, he cannot live in Roxbury without comment as to why. I note that even after the hours I put into correcting your earlier chapters, rewriting them to include the disease, you have neither acknowledged my efforts nor rectified the omissions in your work. I’m disappointed in the extreme. I wonder if perhaps jealousy is at play here too. Do you fear I can write your story better than you? Needless to say, I suggest you remove all the hoodies and replace them with some fucking masks!”

Leo A’s frank contempt for Hannah as a person of color and a writer is on full display in this passage. Hannah’s inclusion of hoodies for every character in the chapter that inspires this tantrum from Leo A shows that in the hands of an able writer, words have power. Here, she uses her words to provoke Leo A, either as a means of getting him to reveal more about himself or as a defense against his disrespect for her as a writer.

“My God, it was you. It was you from the beginning.”

Freddie’s declaration is a cliché that appears at the climax of formulaic whodunits, a point Hannah reinforces with references to other cartoon crime fighters and detectives like Batman and the teens of Scooby Doo. She also includes gore—blood everywhere as Whit shoots Cain. Hannah’s choice to write this particular ending shows what she thinks of Leo A—as a reader, he deserves no better than the bare minimum needed to close out the narrative she has been writing for him. This ending also leaves several unresolved subplots—who did scream that day in the library, and who did kill Isaac Harmon? Hannah uses her words as a weapon to show her contempt for Leo A.

“We had barely laid eyes on each other when I was apprehended. I was wounded that you didn’t visit me before I was extradited. I asked for you several times during the two days I was in Australian custody, but you didn’t come, and we missed our chance to be with each other while we talked about our work and our lives. No matter. I am a loyal man, and patient. We will encounter each other in the flesh eventually. I look forward to that. In the meantime, know that I’ll be there if you need me.”

This passage from Leo A’s last message to Hannah is ironic and shows Leo A’s inability to distinguish between what he imagines and other people’s realities. Leo A recasts his stalking and increasingly aggressive actions as loyalty and love. His note is meant to reassure Hannah of his love, and the fact that he can communicate with her despite his imprisonment shows how dangerous he is. The reader—Hannah and the readers of The Woman in the Library—are aware that this is a threat. The open-ended nature of that threat undercuts the possibility of closure for the reader, creating one more opportunity for the reader to consider the purpose of endings in the mystery genre.