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Joseph Gangemi discusses the story behind his first book, Inamorata, set in 1922 Philadelphia when spiritualism and in particular parlor séances were the fashion and Scientific American offered $5,000 for conclusive evidence of psychic manifestations.
"A few years ago, while browsing in the gift shop of Philadelphia's
White Dog Café, I came across Peter Washington's book MADAME BLAVATSKY'S
BABOON: A HISTORY OF THE MYSTICS, MEDIUMS, AND MISFITS WHO BROUGHT SPIRITUALISM
TO AMERICA (Schocken, 1993). What was one of the city's premiere restaurants
doing selling books on the occult? Turns out the White Dog occupies an old row
house that was home at one time to the colorful Madame Blavatsky (1831 -
1891)... Russian emigré, rumored spy, and founder of the occult religion
Theosophy.
As a fan of obscure history I bought the book, and over the next few days
delighted in Washington's cast of colorful Victorian oddballs. I had recently
sold an original screenplay set at the turn of the century, and I was casting
about, in the daydreamy, directionless way I do between projects, for good
topics for a follow-up period piece. I began toying with the idea of a
fictionalized retelling of the life of 20th Century occult guru Krisnamurti, and
was just starting to dig a little deeper into the history of Spiritualism when I
came across a footnote that stopped me in my tracks.
Apparently, surprisingly, parlor séances -- which I'd always dismissed as a
uniquely Victorian fad -- had enjoyed an upsurge in popularity during the
Roaring Twenties, most likely in response to the staggering human losses of the
Great War.
This struck me as storytelling gold -- Gatsby with ghosts! And it only got
better: delving deeper into the era I learned of Scientific American's $5,000
offer in 1922 for conclusive evidence of psychic manifestations, and the
subsequent contentious and highly-publicized investigations. Wasting no time I
ordered a copy of Massimo Polidoro's fine book FINAL SEANCE: THE STRANGE
FRIENDSHIP OF HOUDINI AND CONAN DOYLE (Prometheus Books, 2001), and learned
how the Scientific American committee had proceeded to easily debunk one bogus
medium after another... that is, until it encountered Boston socialite Mina
Crandon, aka "Margery." What ensued was a contest of wills between the
very clever Mrs. Crandon and the very determined Harry Houdini, the most
prominent member of the Scientific American's investigating committee. Houdini
was the committee's secret weapon, bringing to the Crandon séances both a
master magician's knowledge of stagecraft and trickery, along with an agnostic's
firebrand zeal for debunking charlatans. (A zeal that belied a deep desire to be
proven wrong; like many a skeptical inquirer, Houdini was desperate for proof of
a spirit realm.)
The battle of wills between Margery and Houdini would continue for many
months, and end ultimately in a draw -- though Houdini, it must be said, made a
compelling case against Margery, who was most likely a bored socialite with a
very busy extra-curricular love life. At least one member of the Scientific
American committee would later admit in his memoirs that he had been engaged at
the time of the investigations in a torrid affair with Mrs. Crandon, and there
has been speculation that he wasn't alone.
I have no opinion on that subject, having made the creative decision upon
finishing Polidoro's book (and one other long out-of-print title, Margery, by
Thomas Tietze) to read no further, though nearly everyone involved in the affair
eventually published their side of the story. Why? First, because I knew I
wanted to heavily fictionalize the episode, changing all the character's names
and relocating it from Boston -- a city I knew only superficially, having lived
there for a year in the mid-90s -- to Philadelphia, my old stomping grounds.
Also, I knew I wanted to sideline Houdini in favor of a narrator of my own
creation. (As a rule I don't especially like fiction that employs real
historical figures in key roles; cameos are fine, but when they linger onstage
too long I begin to notice the prosthetic noses and appliqué muttonchops.)
Finally, and most importantly, I knew that in order for my young narrator
Martin Finch -- and by extension, myself -- to fall in love with Margery, she
would need to be a far more complicated, sympathetic heroine than her more
calculating real-world analogue seems by all accounts to have been. A woman, in
other words, capable of our pity, since it is Martin's propensity to empathize
which ultimately undoes him.
Once these creative decisions were made, I proceeded with the less exciting
but equally necessary drudge work: outlining. For better or worse I am an
outliner (worse, Stephen King would say, and does, in his otherwise
inspirational ON WRITING). I could say I've been forced to learn how to outline
by my "day job" of screenwriting, but the truth is I would probably
outline even if I'd never written a screenplay; it just suits my cautious,
risk-averse side. That's not to say there isn't room for spontaneity in writing.
In fact, I find that the more outlining I do up front, the more spontaneous I
can be at my laptop. It's a little like driving cross country: unless you have
unlimited time to make the journey, you'd be foolish to set out without having
at least glanced at an atlas. But you'd also be equally foolish to stay
exclusively on the interstates, missing scenic detours and crazy roadside
attractions. Or here's another metaphor: often, what we most admire in jazz are
the improvisational solos, yet these would be impossible without a sure grasp --
and many hours spent mastering -- the melody.
My outline finished, I started work on chapter one of "The Sensitives"
(the working title) in October of 2001, and after a month had written and
discarded a hundred pages and three separate openings, all in the third person.
Luckily, on November first I hit on Finch's "voice" -- quite
unexpectedly, as I didn't often write in the first person -- and was off to the
races. Within six months I had a first draft, and by the summer of 2002 my
literary agent Theresa was making the rounds of publishing houses with what we'd
decided was the more evocatively titled Inamorata. Two nerve-wracking
weeks later we sold the book to editor Katherine Court at Viking. The only bad
news: Viking's fiction list for 2003 was already full, and so the book wouldn't
come out until February of 2004, more than eighteen months after acceptance.
Eager as I was at the time to see my book in print, in hindsight I'm glad I had
those extra six months. I used them to expand the novel by nearly twelve
thousand words, adding the opening hypnosis scene, the visit to Wanamaker's
department store, and Finch's trip to Kirkbride Mental Hospital, as well as
adding a filigree of 1920s period detail. My editor Katherine had wisely pointed
out that readers of historical fiction enjoy luxuriating in such details, and so
my screenwriter's instinct to strip all description to the bone was actually
limiting me as a novelist. Further taking this advice to heart, I hired Vickie
Tamboer, a designer friend I'd met while working on a film in Amsterdam, to be
my "costume consultant" and create a wardrobe for my characters.
Vickie delivered in spades, and I have her to thank for Mina's glamorous
wardrobe. Also, as it turns out, for Mina's face, as it was Vickie who found the
haunting portrait of the Unknown Flapper now gracing the book's dustjacket."
Unless otherwise stated, this interview was conducted at the time the book was first published, and is reproduced with permission of the publisher. This interview may not be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the copyright holder.
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