Does bad religion produce bad writing? If we use Jill, by G.R. Spiecker, as a gauge, then the answer is yes. Jill is a tract of dubious Catholicism masquerading as dubious fiction. One can forgive an author his religion since, however it comes to him—whether by upbringing, cultish coercion, or even by grace—it lies beyond his control (at least in theory). But the sin of bad writing is unpardonable.
First, let’s consider the novel as a novel, then let’s consider how the author’s religious stance may have infected his writing. Jill is the book of Job (minus the nuance) recast as the tale of a homeless woman on the streets of New York City. Jill began life in the midst of a virtuous southern gentility, but as a teenager she succumbed to the overpowering wiles of her (Protestant) pastor who impregnated her. With an abortion, a refusal to reveal the father’s identity, and her own father’s demand that she kneel before her pastor and beg forgiveness, Jill flees her family and runs to the big city. There, she joins the hippies, goes to Woodstock, does drugs, is forced into prostitution, and escapes the oldest profession by living ignominiously on the streets. Years later, she witnesses an accident and runs to the local rectory for help. As fast as the reader can say “Deus ex machina” (what other kind of Deus is there?) the woman has been saved from her sordid life, is living in a posh apartment with a Henry Higgins look-alike who wines her and dines her and takes her to shows on Broadway, she contracts lung cancer, inherits a fortune, and leaves it all to Father Tom’s school, just as all the poor children are about to confront the horrible prospect of having to locate another private school to attend. Most importantly, Jill is vindicated. The Protestant pastor is caught with another girl in flagrante delicto, confesses all in a letter to Jill’s father, and restores order to the universe by committing suicide.
In synopsis, it all sounds quite heartwarming, almost Dickensian. Why then did I find it so difficult to finish? Here’s a list—a bit of a cautionary tale in its own right:
First, on the book’s final page is a note of thanks to the proof reader. Instead of thanking her, the author should have shot her. Second, there are mechanical problems that make Bulwer Lytton read like a poet from the lake district: “On Thursday, Father Tom presided over the requiem mass, and he was interred at Saint Raymond’s Cemetery in the Bronx.” One wonders how Father Tom presided at his own mass. Was he buried alive? (Shouldn’t he have given himself extreme unction first?) Or this: “He gave the impression of being all business, but he was obviously stunned … ” How can this be obvious if he has just given the opposite impression? And the adverbs! Oh, the humanity! “Peter was obviously deeply affected by Jill’s story.” It seems no page is complete without at least one instance of either “fortunately” or “unfortunately.” And let’s not forget the redundancies, like being “emotionally moved.” Third, the author seems intent on explaining absolutely everything, even to the point of irrelevance. “In doing this, Jill now realized she was conveying to Peter her subtle message of thanks which she hoped he understood.” The author wants to be certain the reader gets the point, since the reader is obviously deeply stupid.
But it is the final item on my list which is most problematic. The author has a boundless appetite for paternalistic moralizing. Jill, now close to redemption, volunteers to serve a Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless: “Since Jill was customarily the recipient at these charity meals, she was amazed at the amount of work and people it required to provide them.” It was a measure of restraint that kept the author from having Jill deliver a speech to all the homeless, instructing them to be duly grateful. Peter, the Henry Higgins stand-in, drives to Pennsylvania for Thanksgiving. “During his visit, he had an opportunity to witness, firsthand, the austere Amish way of life and was deeply moved.” It’s enough to make me gag on my yams. While the impulse to explain everything merely implies that we are stupid, the impulse to explain how we ought to respond implies that we are also depraved and, like Jill, in need of redemption.
Why would an author do this to us? I return to my opening question and wonder if there is something about the believing that bleeds into the writing. Here is my theory: both the believing and the writing betray a deep-seated anxiety. Near the end of the novel, in a single sentence, the author makes explicit the source of anxiety which drives his writing: “Things are so much more beautiful when your life is in order, thought Jill.” A world without order seems untenable. It seemed untenable to Job’s companions. It seems untenable to most of us. It seems that way to the author. A Deus ex machina would solve all our problems. In the absence of such a solution, the author has assumed the role for himself and, through the amazing power of authorial fiat, has created his own little universe where he can manipulate the characters (much like a child playing with toy soldiers on his bedroom floor) so that everything comes out right in the end. When Peter offers a gift (a rosary that belonged to Mother Theresa), Father Tom promises to say extra prayers for him. Order demands an equitable exchange between good deeds and grace; in the long run, you reap what you sow; sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell; and so on. In the author’s universe, redemption is a mathematical proposition. But in such a universe, what need is there for God? Wouldn’t an algorithm do nicely? Just input our lives, execute a calculation of our merits, and spit out a disposition. Why not write novels in the same way? The details don’t matter. Just input a few generic characters, a variable of tension, and execute a neat resolution. Except for one little problem: things do not always come out right in the end and neat resolutions are as rare as frogs on the moon. This is not a bad thing; it means only that the universe is complicated—more complicated than one would conclude if Jill were the only available evidence.