Signed, ‘A Lady’: Corseted Content and the Nom de Plume as Tactics of Women Writers in Their (Very P

The third in a series: On why women writers chose to use pseudonyms and edited their content to maintain an agreeable audience.

Amelia Opie (sourced).

Last week the official dates for the launching of the VRE were confirmed. Come the 14th and 15th of June, the NEWW Women Writers database will be available for researchers – of literature, history, literary history, and every conceivable subject in between – to utilise at will. This will mark my departure from the Spinhuis and a week-and-a-half countdown to the deadline of my Master’s thesis. The very goals of this internship are (concisely put) personal progression, application of knowledge and reflection. Perhaps now, two months in, I should take a moment to describe how far I have come and how far I have yet to go.

When considering a topic for this post, I again drew on my own research and experiences. I have just finished the second chapter of my thesis, which questions to what extent the ‘separate spheres’ theory can be applied to the lives of Scottish working-class women in view of answering the central question: did ‘separate spheres’ have any significant impact on the behaviour (violent or otherwise) of domestic servants in Dundee between 1860 and 1910? Before I continue, for those who are not aware, the ‘separate spheres’ theory is, basically, how ‘woman, go make me a sandwich’ jokes originated. It is a concept that defines and justifies the segregation of men and women in Europe and the United States into ‘separate spheres’ from the late seventeenth century onward. Though the chronology is contentious, this division became increasingly noticeable in the nineteenth century. Women's place was considered to be the ‘private sphere’ of the home and there was limited opportunity for manoeuvrability.

Feminist critique suggests that the ‘separate spheres’ concept was created for and modelled by an idealistic audience of middle-class women. Working-class women were largely removed from the debate. Did this exclusion presume that a working-class woman’s ‘private sphere’ was broader than her middle-class counterpart? Was this the case or was it a commonly reiterated stereotype that stemmed from working-class women’s engagement with the ‘public sphere’ of the workplace? I am still researching this myself and have a way to go before I can present my case study as an ironclad conclusion to this issue. Nevertheless, over the past few weeks, several points have struck me regarding the situation of women writers during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that parallel themes in my thesis. Moreover, as many of these writers were members of the textbook-perfect middle-class audience, they provide excellent fodder for discussion.

Some ideological questions that arose this past week... Firstly, does the gender of an author matter? I was in a tutorial once where a male student claimed he could tell an author’s sex based on the content of the work. For example, a woman (he determined) would never write a military history. Needless to say, his comments solicited some groans. Secondly, if fictional writing is an example of creative expression, how liberated were literary women? Were they really allowed to decide what to write? How often were they obliged to curtail their subject matter to suit a wider, more conservative, audience?

One of my favourite books growing up was Hedgehogs in the Hall by Lucy Daniels; the fifth book in the Animal Ark series. My family is not great with serials (my cousin was once given the third Harry Potter book as a Christmas present – without having read any of the others). No context, no matter; it was still my favourite. I decided to do a presentation in my English class on the author of the book and was surprised to find that “Lucy Daniels” was, in fact, a pseudonym. I did not understand what this meant at the time, I only understood that the real author was… a man! I was shocked – mortified even – I felt betrayed by Ben M. Baglio. Of course, I have since recovered, but the idea that someone could express themselves in such a persuasive and entertaining way, while pretending to be someone else, truly confused me. Many years later, I am sitting in front of a computer with the NEWW database of 1674 pseudonyms open (don't worry, I am not hyperventilating) and I now appreciate the concept of the nom de plume.

Women in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries used pseudonyms for slightly different reasons than the author of the Animal Ark series. If we note Michel de Certeau’s ‘strategy/tactic’ framework, some women writers may have used pen names as a ‘tactic’ to subvert the overwhelming ‘strategy’ of exclusion present in the prejudicial, male-dominated literary circles they hoped to enter. Gender-ambiguous or outright masculine pseudonyms were ubiquitous: George Sand, George Eliot, the Bell Brothers, and later, Harper Lee and J. K. Rowling and so on and so forth. So, to answer the proposed question – during this period and arguably still today – the gender of an author absolutely mattered.

The 'Life and Age of Woman: Stages of Woman's Life From the Cradle to the Grave' (sourced).

The next point questions just how liberated women writers were in their literary expression; an almost unanswerable question. Take, for example, Jane Austen. She penned her works with the pseudonym ‘a lady’, unafraid or indifferent to the implications this might have had on her popularity. Very little is known about her personally. Austen was unmarried, she did not pass the third tier of womanhood (pictured above) nor did she, undoubtedly, always believe in happy endings. Nevertheless, she wrote them for her characters, and this secured her fate as one of the most enduring figures in English literary history.

How often did women have to sacrifice what they wanted to write for what they ought to write? Or, what was ‘proper’ in their ‘condition’? Assuredly, many women would have written on whatever they pleased; seeking fame, notoriety or what have you. However, there were also many who desperately depended on the wealth of their works and had to tactically brand themselves to suit their readership and, perhaps more dauntingly, their critics.

A leading example of palatable dissent was Amelia Opie. Born in Norwich to a politically-minded family, she used her writing to support the abolition of slavery, or the "White man's crime" as she referred to it in her 1826 work, The Black Man's Lament, or How to Make Sugar. Her first novels Dangers of Coquetry (1790), published anonymously, and The Father and Daughter (1801) comprised of altogether different subject matter, but danced with equally as controversial topics. Women's place in society, the responsibility of familial bonds, seduction over sensibility and the delicate matters of sex and pregnancy were on the bill. Opie's career was supported by her husband, she was generally well-received by her readership and was popular during her lifetime as a female writer. But, was this because her work was irresistible or because she showed just enough restraint for her pre-Victorian readership? Also, she was married! What harm could a happily married women do?!

I do not know much about literature; male or female writers alike. However, I can only imagine the kind of stifled creative-will they must have lived with – particularly women – in an effort to get their works published, read and commented upon. If I reflect now on my time at Huygens, I would say confidently that I have learnt more about women in literature. Partially, through the osmosis of working in the VRE and through my own curiosity, which has driven me to research these women. More significant to my own research interests and (hopeful) future career, I am developing a frightening fondness of women en masse. Women in literature, women in history, women with real trials and tribulations. It is giving my research, and my research topic, something it has seldom had: real purpose.

#womenwriters #womensliterarystudies #History #JaneAusten #AmeliaOpie #pseudonyms #research #NEWW #VRE