Book Club Recap (Rogue Section): The Marsh King’s Daughter by Karen Dionne

For the first time since our Book Club was founded, we had a Rogue Section meeting—attended by writers who’ve expressed interest in reading something a bit more dark and suspenseful.

Dark themes aside, the meeting was as bright and lively as it can be. I dare say we had a lot of fun! Here’s what we talked about.

• STRUCTURE

  The narrative in this book is divided into two sections— the present-day story (Helena’s dealing with her father’s escape from prison) and the past storyline (showing the events from her mother’s abduction to their escape and new life in freedom).

  In the execution of this structure, the members found two main issues.

  First, the transitions between two storylines could have been smoother. Those of us who write dual timelines know that the most important thing is that the transitions aren’t random: there should be something in the present storyline triggering the transition to the past storyline, and the events of the past storyline should, in return, inform the present storyline. For the most part, the author didn’t pay much attention to the transitions. The most glaring example was when Helena thought the dead man in the cabin was her husband, but then instead of dwelling on this, she slips into the past storyline, to the scene when her father takes her to the waterfall. There’s no way Helena’s internal monologue, after seeing her dead husband lying on the floor would’ve turned to the day her father took her to the waterfalls naturally. So the transition felt patched up and forced. The author wanted to build suspense—but we felt cheated. Especially, when the next chapter opens with—that wasn’t Stephen.

  The other thing that didn’t sit well in treating the past storyline was the beginning of the story, where Helena relayed what her mother had gone through. Since she was telling someone else’s story (her mother’s) there was a lot of distance, and copious use of filter words.

• INTERIORITY vs. DEEP POV

  One of the reasons we decided to read the book is because Donald Maass said it was an excellent example of interiority—and that it was! For some reason, we mistook interiority for deep POV. The two aren’t interchangeable though: this book was a great example of interiority, but it was far from deep POV.

  The whole book is told from Helena’s POV—and it reads like her internal monologue (hence the jarring effect when her internal monologue took a turn when she thought she saw her husband dead). Dialogue is scarce. So yes, the whole book is, basically, interiority—Helena relaying the events to the reader. However, there was a lot of emotional distance in this delivery. We didn’t feel immersed in Helena’s experience. We were being told this story, but we didn’t get to experience it along the protagonist.

• CHARACTER ARC

  We expected her character arc to change, but it pretty much stayed the same. It didn’t feel like she learned much from her clash with her father. A lot of us felt the pinnacle of her character arc would be understanding her mother better—culminating in giving her a name at last, but that didn’t happen. We can’t help but wonder if this is a result of her own narcissistic and psychopathic tendencies (more on that in just a bit).

• DEPICTION OF A PSYCHOPATH WITH A HEFTY DOSE OF NARCISSISM

  One thing we all agreed was well done, and it was at the very heart of this story, is Helena’s conflicting feelings about her father. She knows, rationally, that he is a very bad man. Yet, she has fond memories of him no one else has. He was the source of connection in her young age—the caregiver parent if you will, as well as the source of her confidence and identity: she relished his lessons, and grew on him showing her respect as a fellow hunter. At times, it feels that the whole character arc in this book is her—trying to be his equal. Outsmarting him in the end does just that.

  Her emotional attachment to her father stayed the same throughout the novel. She harbored the exact same feelings for him from the moment she escaped to the moment she killed him—she loved and resented him at the same time, and it almost felt the ratio of positive vs. negative feelings stayed pretty much the same throughout the novel. Again, no arc in that. (One brilliant moment, in my opinion, though, is when she sees him for the first time after his incarceration—and notices just how unhinged he looks; and isn’t able to tell if this look on him is new or if he’d always looked like that).

  His sadistic and psychopathic tendencies were described almost flawlessly, as was his narcissism. The combination of the three is nothing short of lethal, even for his own daughter. Some argued it was unrealistic that he showed he cared for her at all. But that is at the core of narcissism—conditional love. Love that is only given when the narcissist deems it deserved. With choosing when to give and when to withhold love, they keep their victim’s focus on themselves rather than on the fact if they even deserve this love.

  However, one of our members had a good point. Children of narcissists usually go down one of two roads—turning into empaths, or into narcissists. We agreed that the latter is true for Helena. Her narcissism shows on so many levels—I’m just not sure if the author intended it or not.

  Her relationship with her mother is the best example. She doesn’t name her mother—not even when she’s at her mother’s grave in the end of the book, which shows that throughout the story, toward its very end, she still treats her mother like her father did—as a prop, an object. What she did with her mother’s birthday present at the age of five is a great example too. The way she feels differently about her own children, clearly favoring Mari to Iris, as Mari is more like her, is another indication. It is known for narcissists that they divide their children into a golden child and a black sheep and that they often pit one against the other. Some members said she showed a great deal of care toward her daughters—and it’s true. It’s not that narcissists are incapable of feelings, it’s that their feelings are conditional (much like her father’s love to her was). She cares for her girls, yet she will go into the marsh for a couple weeks at a time, and leave them in Stephen’s care.

  As for her psychopathic tendencies, she enjoyed killing the animals. It wasn’t just for food and necessity; she clearly enjoyed taking life. When she killed her first fawn that turned out to be pregnant, she didn’t feel sorry. She only wished her second fawn would carry twins.

  And when she slit the Hunter’s throat (whom, mind you, she calls the Hunter, knowing full well his full name, which is a clear way of dehumanizing this poor man), she did so with unimaginable coldness (stepping aside for the blood spatter). While she tries to convince us later own that she feels bad for taking a human life, the way she says that is still self-centered (as opposed to grieving for his losing his life, and being thankful for the sacrifice he’s made for her her and her mother’s freedom, she speaks of how she is affected by that—can’t sleep etc.).

• AVOIDING CLICHES

  One of the great things about this book it that it breaks some clichés. First, if you expected Helena to side with her mother, the abducted girl her father had abused throughout the events of the novel, you’re in for a surprise. It seems only logical that she would sympathize with her mother, but when you read the events of her childhood, it becomes logical that she and her mother would never create a deep bond. For her mother, Helena was a product of rape. And the girl did connect better to her father, despite his sadistic tendencies. In between sadistic episodes, he’s the one who showed parental love to Helena. However, her mother did show emotions toward her too—only problem was that she learned to see her mother as her father saw her; an object, not a person.

  The other cliché we expected to see was her grandparents being ‘the good guys.’ But upon retrieving their daughter and her child, they sold the rights to her story to media and, generally, were only interested in gaining financial benefit out of their daughter’s horrible situation.

• CULTURAL APPROPRIATION

  In view of the #ownvoices and #BLM movement, it struck us as curious that (even though it was published in 2017) the author didn’t get a backlash for cultural appropriation. Jacob, Helena’s father, is a Native American, and relies heavily on Spiritualism and use of their folklore. The author, to our knowledge, has no personal ties with Native Americans. One of our members remembered a Canadian author receiving tons of backlash for similar cultural appropriation, so we were a bit puzzled as to why some authors get called out on it, while others manage to get away with it.

• THE USE OF THE TALE

  When entering the past storyline, the author delivers a piece of The Marsh King’s Daughter, a little-known tale by the famous Hans Christian Andersen. The tale—or rather, its similarity to the events of the novel—is astounding, and most of us liked its use (though there were some who thought it distracting). However, most of us agreed that when the author started using the tale inside the narrative, it was a bit over the top. Readers like to make the connections themselves, and when the author starts pointing out the similarities between the tale and the events of the novel, it almost feels like being hit over the head with it. It takes away that scrumptious feeling of getting it on your own.

  The other thing that jarred was that Helena claims it was her mother’s favorite tale. It felt unlikely, given the sweet and naive girl her mother was when abducted (though it was a bit unconvincing that girls aged 14 would wear pigtails and play in the abandoned warehouses, and buy into the help-me-find-my-missing-puppy story). With the violent content of the tale, it seemed unlikely it would be her mother’s favorite—she struck us more like a Cinderella kind of girl.

  One more thing that our members found curious is, why, amid all the Native American Spiritualism and folklore, the author chose the use of a classic tale writer—Hans C. Andersen. But we agreed it made sense. It shows the protagonist’s duality; her father being Native, and her mother being of Finnish (aka Scandinavian) descent. Also, there’s the whole thread of Helena’s obsession with Vikings, as well as a tribe from Brazilian rain forests—another proof of her duality as a person, of the disjointed two halves she was made from.

• IMAGINARY FRIENDS

  We agreed that, with so much story being told to us—since Helena is alone for the most part of both present and past storyline, introduction of imaginary friends (after seeing the family at the waterfalls) was a great choice. It allowed for more dialogue to break apart longer prose paragraphs, and it also showed the different aspects of Helena fighting with each other—her love for her father in one corner, and her blossoming realization her father is a bad man and his love for her conditional, in the other.

  We all felt it made sense Calypso and Cousteau reappeared when she was fighting her father, and the fight took a bad turn for her. Lying in the gutter, hurt and aching, it made sense she re-imagined them and that they helped her get up and work through her pain to stop her father from hurting her family.

  However, we didn’t get why they were still there when the fight ended and things in Helena’s life went back to normal. Once the danger was gone, so should they’ve been. Grown people don’t keep imaginary friends, unless they’re… well… schizophrenic. I wonder if this is what the author was going for?

So there you go. In words of one of our members—it wasn’t a perfect book, despite the accolades it accrued in literary circles, but we’re still glad we read it, and feel we learned a ton from it.

Stay safe and write on!

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Have you read this book? Did you like it? Let me know your thoughts in the comments!

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