My Google Alert for ‘The Mary Shelley Game’ has alerted me to a play in London based on the life of Mary Shelley. I would love to go, but — flying to London to see a play is not on the agenda right now. Too many things to do and too many bills to pay, but I’m not complaining. It’s gotten me thinking about the pace of life when Mary Shelley lived and wrote her masterpiece.
It was a much slower time.
Visiting friends in the country meant staying for weeks on end and traveling to town meant days on the road, stopping at inns and dining in roadside taverns. Between those in-person visits, friendships would be nurtured with long letters. It sounds relaxing until I realize that my fingers would itch for ye ‘old keyboard and the iPhone that keeps me connected even when my head is busy in fiction-land.
Still, I’d like to visit that time — with a pace slow enough for contemplation — I could write and write and write. I’d have an entire nest of monsters. Of course they’d be in my illegible handwriting, so I’m best in the 21st century. I’ve just finished another draft of the second monster — Bram Stoker’s Summer Sublet — happily pounding away on my Mac.