Austen Canon Project: Speak Now

Ellie Engquist 4/29/15 Dr. Eberle ENGL 4505

When assigned this fan fiction project, I instantly thought of drawing a bridge between Jane

Austen and Taylor Swift, of whom I am a massively huge fan. My first ideas centered on comparing

Swift to Austen herself (her recent single “Blank Space” just feels like the kind of direct satire that

st Austen would create if she were writing in the 21 ​ century). However, I do not feel very attached to ​ fictionalizing the Tom Lefroy romance that most Austen fan fics extrapolate on. I decided then to anchor Taylor Swift in one of Austen’s stories. Much of Taylor Swift’s songwriting and public persona centers around relationships, much like Austen’s fiction. I decided to cross Pride & Prejudice with a ​ ​ real life Taylor Swift love affair, her brief stint with John Mayer. I saw the parallels almost instantly –

John Mayer is widely known for being egotistical and proud, but handsome. Taylor Swift is smart and sharp­tongued, a great Elizabeth Bennet figure. And as Mayer is older than Swift and a more established artist, it mirrors the social divide between Darcy and Lizzie.

In crafting my story, I decided to stick more to the thematic issues of P&P than to a strict arc. ​ ​ A major difference between the two stories is that Taylor does not end up happily ever after with John, as we are to believe that Darcy & Lizzie do. My piece was also a much shorter retelling, therefore I focused on a few key scenes in the arc of P&P: the first ball where Darcy insults Lizzie, Lizzie’s arrival ​ ​ at Netherfield to visit Jane, and the proposal scenes – using awards shows as balls/social occasions in the modern context. I also left the ending open, hinting at a future relationship rather than changing the actual events. However, the story is not fully canon for either story; I do not have any details of John and Taylor’s relationship, and therefore chose to heavily fictionalize the events – the song mentioned is a real song, but the events surrounding it are of my own creation. I also chose to play with point of view, alternating between the John and Taylor’s voice, as a reimagining of free indirect discourse.

Where Austen would employ the free indirect discourse voice with a third person narrative, I wanted a more personal voice to the story as both of my characters are known for their first person confessional songwriting. Speak Now

The second he locks eyes with her, she feels her heart begin to race. Effortlessly smug, tattooed and slightly tortured, his “don’t look at me” energy pulls all of the focus and oxygen out of the room.

She’s been around this scene for a few years now, and she’s still not quite used to being in green rooms with people that exude this kind of effortlessly famous energy – it makes her feel very small, and she hates other people making her feel small. He’s surrounded by women, of various degrees of stunning beauty. As often happens to Taylor in moments like this, a new lyric pops into her head: “But you always know a boy like that with money and power/is just on an endless quest for one thing.” Okay, maybe a couple of rewrites needed on that one...

He seems to take up the whole room, but Taylor manages to step unseen across the room to the snack table – she needs a Diet Coke, her anchor in tough times – and ends up close enough to hear his conversation to the business suit next to him: “I hate coming to these things – you know that. If I have to hear another blonde country pop princess misuse Shakespearean allusions, I’m going to leave. It’s not real music, and it’s not even worth the stage time.”

Taylor clutches her silver can so tight it might crumple. Who does this guy think he is? Not real music? Are we not literally nominated at the same awards show? And I know how Romeo and Juliet ​ ends, it’s just an iconic image of teenage romance that totally serves “Love Story”! It was then and there she decided that people were right: John Mayer was a handsome, proud, pompous jerk. Taylor took a deep breath, another sip of her drink, and started planning all the snarky things she’d say to

Allison about this guy on the phone tonight.

John stands in the wings, Fender in hand, waiting for his turn in the lineup. Another day, another giant entertainment industry snooze fest. If only there was a way to make his music and not be dragged to these things. The crowd is wailing in the arena, a deafening wall of teenage screams. A tall girl in a sparkly dress comes bounding offstage, hugging her band and proclaiming, “That was so awesome! You guys are the best!” He’s seen her before, on every magazine cover, but there’s something different now that a picture never captured. There’s a glistening in her eyes, an exuberance that only comes from throwing yourself into a live performance. As she bounces about, offering hugs and celebrations to anyone she can throw her arms around, John can’t keep his eyes off of her.

A female voice next to him starts talking ­ a model friend who has been making not­so­subtle moves on him for weeks ­ “Can you believe her? It’s like she was just named prom queen or something.”

John, not even looking at the speaker, replies, “I think she’s captivating.”

“I’m sorry, what?” the girl replied, in a whiny affect that made John cringe.

“Her set was great, and I don’t know, she’s just the most captivating girl in the room!”

“John, warrior of musical authenticity, you cannot be celebrating her right now!”

But John didn’t hear that; for in that moment he and Taylor locked eyes; he tried to offer a smile but was met with a look of cold disdain that replaced the vibrant glow that had been there before.

Not once looking away, she declared loudly: “It may not be real music to some people, but I think our set was awesome.”

John had never felt like that before; humiliated, belitted, and called­out in public. It took all he had to keep his face together.

“Mr. Mayer, you’re up next!” called the stage manager. Grateful for the salvation of the stage and the comfort of his guitar, John stepped into the light to the roar of the crowd.

It had been weeks since the awards show, when she’d caught John’s dark, handsome eyes across the room. They’d had run­ins since, stilted and awkward. They both knew what had transpired betweent them, but neither of them knew how to fix it, or if they even could. Taylor had never wanted to let someone else’s words affect how she felt about her music, but John’s jab came on the heels of some very public and fiercely cruel criticism. Her skin was a little thin at the moment, and an egomaniac whose music she actually super respected only added to the pile. Plus, it didn’t help that he was crazy good­looking, with that bad boy energy that made Taylor’s heart race and Taylor’s mom look into boarding schools for her daughter. She’d never seen someone wear tattoos so well, and she’d caught herself more than a few times listening to those amazing lyrics on Continuum and thinking about ​ ​ them….

As if summoned by her daydreaming, an email pops up in her inbox. It’s from her manager

Scott, and the subject line just reads: “You’ll never guess who wants to work with you.” In disbelief,

Taylor read on. Pompous jerk himself, Mr. “Real Music” Mayer (good one, Tay!), wanted her to guest on a new song. He wanted to meet for dinner to talk over the details, and included his number at the bottom so she could contact him. Taylor was floored, and could feel the stabbing humiliation from that first encounter coming back into her chest. But she also knew she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hear what he had to say. With a nervous quake in her fingers, she dialed the number – but was entirely unprepared for the gruff, smoky voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s um, it’s Taylor. Swift. And um, I heard you wanted to work with me on something?”

– Subtle, Swift.

“You called. Cool. Yeah, I have a song that needs a female vocalist. And I think you’d be a good fit. I was wondering if I could take you to dinner, talk over a few things, maybe get to know each other better?”

The cliche ending did it. Before she could help herself, Taylor blurted out: “Really? You want to get to know me? It’s just that, you’ve made it very clear how you feel about my music. Would you really want someone who is not a real musician on a song with you?” John took a moment, and then replied: ”Well, I’m as surprised as you are. But I can’t get your sound out of my head. I’ve heard your voice for this since I wrote it and I can’t shake it from my brain.

I've tried a hundred different singers on this song, people you could never even imagine being stacked against. But I can’t ignore it any more. You’re the one I want on this song.

Is he for real? Begging her to sing with him through insults and putting her down? Bitingly, she retorted: “Well, I’m sorry I’ve been an earworm interrupting your chance to work with artists I ‘can’t even imagine’. I’m sorry to have forced my sub­quality music on you. I’m sorry to have ever even crossed paths with you. I’m 90% sure you’re the last person I’d want to collaborate with, even if it came with a guaranteed Grammy and a bundle of perfect kittens. Take your song, and your attitude, and have a nice day.”

And with that, she hung up.

John stared at the phone, stunned. What had he said wrong? Had she really just rejected his proposal? No way in hell.

Okay, maybe taunting her with the other artists was a little juvenile. Maybe he’d just assumed she’d say yes. Maybe that was the wrong way to go.

Damn it. That didn’t feel good.

The sound file sat in her inbox for days, labeled: “Reconsider”. She couldn’t open it; because she knew exactly what it was. And just what all came with it. Scott still wanted her to work with him, but would John? After her blatant and regretful rejection, could he still wanted her on the song? Would he ever forgive her? She could barely bring herself to listen to the song, because she knew she’d fall in love with the track and have to face how badly she’d messed this up. Because now, it wasn’t just their music that was intertwined. Against all the advice of her friends and the vocal objections of her mother, Taylor hadn’t been able to stop thinking of those brown eyes, the deep gruff voice, and (in her thoughts she never shared) how his hands played his guitar like a dance. She wanted him, deeply. She wanted to break through that hardened shell to meet the man behind the attitude. She fell asleep listening to his lyrics, reading into every word a soul so like her own, who could only speak what she really felt through a song. The depth of his honesty moved her; “Comfortable” felt like a story she’d lived alongside him as he sang it.

But it didn’t matter. She’d been hurt, and terse, and shut him out so completely that he’d never forgive her. But she couldn’t stand the mystery anymore. The song file taunted her. She put on her headphones, took a deep breath, and clicked play. The rough cut demo but the opening lyric pulled her in before she could stop it: “I was born in the arms of imaginary friends…” he sung, gently but firmly.

The song had a sweet and soft sound, light and breezy like spring. But what struck Taylor was how well he captured the story he was telling, a story she’d felt before. She could no longer deny how he made her feel – musically, personally, and romantically. Through his never ending string of off­putting

Internet sound bites and his elitist tastes in music and people, there was something beautifully desirable about him. She felt drawn to him as she never had to another, as someone who could challenge her to grow and release her from her stubbornness. As she thought this through, she began to feel her pulse quicken. What could she do now?

Just as in the past, John listened to the roar of the crowd as the song finished. But this time, he let himself revel in the electric energy of the room, the sheer power she had as a performer. She bounded off stage, aglow again with passion and exertion of performance. He had still never seen anything like her, and might never again. As she got swept up in her band and crew, he almost let her get away – but he couldn’t do that again. At the risk of looking as childish as he felt, he called after her:

“Taylor!” She stopped and turned, then look surprised at the source of the voice. Pleasantly surprised. She detached herself from her group, the light catching the sequins of her dress as she crossed the room.

“Great set,” he muttered, suddenly mortified and self­conscious.

“Thanks!” she said, as her blue eyes continued to shimmer in rivalry with the stage lights.

There was a brief pause before she added, determinedly but sheepishly: “John, ‘Half Of My

Heart’ is beautiful. Truly. I’m sure you’ve found someone to put on the track, and I can’t wait to hear it.

Thank you for thinking of me for it. I really missed out.”

John stopped her, “Taylor. The songs always been for you. It’s yours. I couldn’t record it with anyone else. When I said I tried a million other people, it was the biggest lie. Just me being an asshole as usual.”

Taylor’s mouth dropped open in surprise, she couldn’t help it. “So you mean?­“

“What are you doing tomorrow night? Let me take you to dinner. We’ll talk about your ideas for the vocal track, your new album, the tour, everything. I’d love to hear it.”

A lingering eye contact and finally, a moment of mutual respect. And an undeniable spark lit between them, a spark they both felt but could not know where it would lead. Even with such a great divide between them, the love of music and the thrill of performing could always unite two like hearts.