Interred with Their Bones
I’m Kim Alexander and this is Fiction Nation. The book is Interred with Their Bones by Jennifer Lee Carrell.
This is a know everything society. We follow our friends’ every move on Facebook I draw the line at Twitter, though, since not only have I not mastered it, I’m not even entirely sure what it is. (And get off my lawn.) So, there we are, recounting every move we make and obsessively watching what are friends are up to Mira joined a group! My brother’s puppy is still cute! Lisa is having trouble coming up with something to write about in her blog! We’re all having our 15 minutes all at once. As closely as we watch our friends, we’re even more interested in celebrities and actors and politicians on blogs and cable. It’s like they and we only exist because we’re constantly documented. Of course it was hardly this way even in the recent past, by which I mean 5 minutes ago. You know, the dark ages. Back then, a private life could remain so. And Shakespeare getting to the point at last must have been one heck of a private person…if he existed at all. And that (dun dun dun!) is the question. Did he or didn’t he?
So, Shakespeare. Is it conceivable that he wrote arguably the finest body of work ever written in English, yet left almost nothing of his own story behind? Turns out there are lots of folks who are very invested in all sides of that debate. Jennifer Lee Carrell’s first novel of fiction takes a young American theater director and plops her into the middle of a mystery: is there a lost play of the bard floating around? Did he write it? In fact, did he even exist? And why are so many people trying to kill her? There are lots of characters, and many of them are the sort that sit next to you at a dinner party and sound perfectly nice until you realize they are completely nuts I’m sorry, but Queen Elizabeth did not write all those plays, I don’t care how many anagrams you can come up with.
It’s great fun and has enough truth in it to make you wonder. A little.