Imagine the scene: a brilliant young writer, whose father has spent time in jail for debt becomes a newspaper’s political columnist at just 21 years of age. His work is astonishing; from parliamentary sketches, to reports from election campaigns, to witty snapshots of the scenes and people he encounters on his travels. When he comes up with the idea for a collection of comic adventures involving Samuel Pickwick and his friends Winkle, Snodgrass and Tupman, the book is a sensation.
That is what happened to Charles Dickens, when he burst onto the literary scene in the 1830s, first as a journalist on the Morning Chronicle and then as the author of The Pickwick Papers. And up to this point, one could imagine a young media prodigy having a similar success story today. But only up to this point, because here is what would happen next.
The modern, classless Charlie Dickens and his agent are invited to lunch with a few top people at his publishers, such as his editor, the managing director and the head of the press office. The editor asks Charlie what he’s planning for his follow-up and the boy-wonder replies, ‘Well, there’s a story I’m working on called Oliver Twist. It’s about an orphan who gets involved in a gang of London streetkids who survive by picking pockets. On one level it’s a classic children’s story, but it’s also a searing indictment of the way society treats inner-city, underclass kids today.’
All the publishing team go as pale as the Ghost of Bestsellers Past and the managing director clears his throat and says, ‘Er, where does Pickwick come into the story, Charlie?’
More... RIGHTMINDS: Please, sir, can I have a bit less? A tale of 102 bottles: How Dickens sent alcohol and a 'handsome allowance' to his student son Charles Dickens novels 'too long for today's young' says writer's biographer‘He doesn’t. I told you, the new one’s about Oliver Twist.’
‘But we don’t want Oliver Twist. We want more Pickwick.’
‘The marketing department really like the idea of calling the sequel The Pickwick iPod,’ the glamorous press officer pipes up.
'But we don't want more Oliver Twist. We want more Pickwick'Now it’s Dickens’ turn to look puzzled: ‘But I don’t want to write any more books about the Pickwick Club. I want to write a historical novel set in the French Revolution … and a children’s ghost-story set on Christmas Eve … And a sort of thriller about a poor country boy who inherits a fortune from an anonymous source, who turns out to be a criminal. It’s got a sub-plot about a mad, lonely woman that has a great Gothic horror feel to it.’
The agent smiles bravely and says, ‘I’m sure Charlie doesn’t really mean it.’
‘Yes I do!’ Charlie protests.
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‘So if you’re Sophie Kinsella, you produce chick-lit books with the word “Shopaholic” in the title. If you’re Lee Child, you write thrillers about a hero called Jack Reacher. But you don’t write funny books about sensitive men from North London, because that’s Nick Hornby’s territory. You don’t even begin to think about setting your books in Africa, because that belongs to Wilbur Smith. And if you tell me that you have an idea for a bespectacled schoolboy who’s really a wizard … well, just don’t.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Dickens. ‘I became a writer because my head was filled with stories that I wanted to tell. Some of them are funny, some are sad, some are romantic, some are exciting … and some are all of those things at once, because that’s how life is. No one told Shakespeare he couldn’t write comedies and tragedies and history plays.’
‘Shakespeare didn’t have to sell his stuff at Tesco,’ Charlie’s agent interjects. ‘Look, retailers deal in shelves, and each shelf has a particular product on it. Some have soap-powder, some have baked beans … and some have thrillers, or historical romance. But if you give them books that belong on different shelves, it’s like Heinz trying to sell them non-bio detergent.’
‘But I don’t care about supermarkets!’ cries Dickens. ‘I care about readers … and I wouldn’t mind a few decent reviews, too, because I want to be taken seriously as a novelist.’
‘Ah, well, that might be a problem,’ says the press officer. ‘I mean, we’ve had tons of publicity for you so far. Everyone loved the poor-boy-made-good angle. But the thing is, you’re really popular, and you seem to want to write stories that are not particularly serious.’
What kind of industry would no longer welcome one of its greatest sons?‘What’s more serious than child poverty?’
‘It’s not that. It’s that your stuff is tremendously enjoyable and easy for ordinary people to understand.’
‘Isn’t that the point? Don’t I want lots of people to love my work?’
‘Oh yes, you want that,’ says the press officer. ‘But the literary critics don’t. You see, they prefer things that are more obscure, a little harder to understand and that don’t rely on tension or excitement to keep readers interested.’
‘You mean, they prefer boring, pretentious rubbish?’
‘Well, since you put it that way: yes.’
‘In that case,’ says Dickens, ‘I’m not becoming an author. I’m going to script TV series, or devise computer games, or almost anything except write books.’
And that, dear reader, is why Charles Dickens would never be published today... And also why (among other reasons) publishing is in such a terrible state. Because if publishing doesn’t have room for a 21st century Dickens, what is the point of publishing at all?
