Because I loved Bonnie Jo Campbell’s most recent collection of short stories, American Salvage, I was excited by the release of her novel Once Upon a River.
Sixteen-year-old Margo Crane lives with her mother and father in rural Michigan, across a small river from her father’s extended family. Growing up in this environment, Margo learns to hunt, fish, swim, and row at the feet of her beloved grandfather. Within the first 25 pages of the novel, though, Margo’s idyllic existence is shattered. She soon finds herself on the run and at the mercy of a series of shady men.
The opening episodes of the novel—and the character of Margo Crane—represent a reworking of one of the short stories in American Salvage. This made the start of the book really fascinating to me, as it was interesting to watch an author return to and redevelop an earlier idea.
As I kept reading, though, I realized that maybe I like Margo better as a character in a short story. Yes, I liked Once Upon a River, but I didn’t love it the way I love Campbell’s shorter works. Eventually, I think the book just became too much of the same—too much of abusive men, too much of solitary stays along the river, too much of skinning wild animals—for me. (In the final third of the novel, Margo does finally form a relationship with a good man, a curmudgeon who—in some ways—fills the void left by her dead grandfather.)
Why does our literary culture demand that authors write novels? Why can’t we just appreciate the perfect short story?
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