Review: The Winter Sea

Susanna Kearsley's The Winter Sea was an enjoyable first read on my new Nook Color.  The novel follows two parallel narratives, one being that of modern-day writer Carrie McClelland who settles into a rented cottage on the Scottish coast to work on her newest historical novel, and the other is that of Carrie's heroine, Sophia Patterson, named, on a whim, for one of Carrie's ancestors.  Carrie's novel, the story within the story, is set in 1708 at Slains Castle and follows Sophia as she finds romance and danger in the midst of an early attempted Jacobite uprising.  At modern day Slains, Carrie becomes concerned when she discovers that her imagined scenes between characters are born out as true by her subsequent research.  She comes to believe that her novel is less fictional that history--she has inherited the memory of her ancestress, and her writing uncovers a variety of twists and surprises that had not been included in the family record.

Despite the quirky framing and occasional references to genetics and DNA to explain how Carrie could possess the memories of her great-great-great-great-great grandmother, the story is less sci-fi /fantasy and more historical novel.  The Carrie narrative arc is gentle: her encounters with the locals who are eager to supply her with material for her novel, the fairly harmless triangle that arises between herself and the two sons of her landlord, and the descriptions of her writing process.  Despite its relative quietude, I liked the Carrie arc--I wanted to know who she ended up with, and as someone who has been attempting a bit of writing myself, I am interested in other writer's descriptions of the process (and surely Carrie and Kearsley share ideas on this subject?).  The Sophia arc was also interesting, if, again, a bit quiet.  There is danger, but most of Sophia's trials are mental--the references to chess games are apt, as she attempts to hide the information she possesses from those who might harm her loved ones and their mission to bring back the Scottish king.  Her's is a more likely true look at the dangers women faced--domestic dangers, the trials of waiting, knowing but being unable to act.

The book reminded me quite a bit of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series--both take place in 18th century Scotland and involve "time-travel" in a way.  But Kearsley's is a gentler tale--far less sex and violence than Gabaldon's lusty adventures.  I definitely recommend the novel as an engaging but tranquil historical read.

Defining Domesticity

The term domesticity hardly seems to need defining. It is not commonly used in everyday parlance, but can quickly be intentified as a derivative of "domestic," which is rather more commonly used. People talk about "being domestic" as in "I am going to be domestic this weekend and do some laundry." On the other end, domesticity as a concept and lifestyle seems to have been assigned solely to stay at home mothers and Martha Stewart disciples. Certainly, there is more to it than this.

Domesticity has a historical context. In the nineteenth century, domesticity was seen as the realm of middle and upper class white women in Britain and America. It indicated wifehood and motherhood as the management of the home as the role for women. Clearly, today, this is problematic, and helps to explain the knee-jerk reaction that many people have when they hear the term domesticity, equating it with oppression and sexism. As Nina Baym says in Woman's Fiction, "domesticity is equated with entrapment" (26). This short-changes the concept of home and family and how women can relate to them. In the nineteenth century, domestic fiction was actually empowering. Prior to the emergence of the genre, most fiction about female characters followed a common plot, one in which women were invariable made into victims; sentimental fiction or novels of sensibility focused on women who were innately good and pious but who are somehow abused, betrayed, seduced, and abandoned. While these novels were perhaps useful in illuminating the plight of women, the fates of these female characters was less than inspiring, usually involving insanity, death, or insanity and then death. In the best cases, the woman was able to reform the rake who was attempting to seduce her, although this makes for questionable husband-material (see Richardson's Pamela).

Domestic fiction, on the other hand, written by women, refused to imagine women as victims. These writers "were unwilling to accept, and unwilling to permit their readers to accept, a concept of woman as inevitable sexual prey" (26). Instead, women had power over the home, and the home was the center of the world. The domestic arrangement and the happy home was the "acme of human bliss." While domestic fiction is often linked to the concept of separate spheres, such a term is perhaps misleading. The home is not cordoned away from the "real world" of the market and public interactions, but instead "everybody was to be placed in the home, and hence, home and the world would become one." This has significant implications for female power: "to the extent that woman dominated the home, the ideology implied an unprecedented historical expansion of her influence" (27).

How does this function today? Do we see domesticity as oppressive? or is there something still empowering in domesticity? In a post-feminist society, does the concept of the domestic world raise hackles or are we seeing an increasing return to home as people become disenchanted with the public realm?