As a writer I receive a lot of rejections. It can be frustrating, disheartening, and even angering at times. At my lowest moments, I wonder if I should just give up? I think I should just throw my MFA degree in the garbage! I grow dejected and bitter. Do these editors not understand the time and care I have spent crafting this story? How can they not see the greatness of this piece? I comfort myself with the thought that once I make it big they will regret rejecting me! Eventually, I come back down to reality and I remember that writing is a long game. That you must continue to submit in the same way you continue to write new work. That writing takes time and revision. That being a writer requires perseverance.

I had not heard of Pamela Hansford Johnson until I came across The Unspeakable Skipton. The reasons I was drawn to the novel are twofold. First, the story of an under-appreciated writer—perhaps I could relate. Second, the comparisons made of Johnson between authors I adore, such as Nancy Mitford, Evelyn Waugh, and Muriel Spark. During Johnson’s life, she was at the center of London’s literary life. After a love affair with Dylan Thomas and a failed first marriage to an Australian journalist, she married the writer C. P. Snow. Snow’s literary success often overshadowed Johnson during her lifetime. She was a prolific writer, between 1935-1980 she published 29 novels, numerous reviews for magazines and newspapers, four critical studies, eight plays, a sociological study, a collection of poetry, and a memoir.

The Unspeakable Skipton is a hilarious romp through Bruges and a biting literary satire following the titular character Daniel Skipton. The author took inspiration for the novel from the life of 19^th century writer Frederick Rolfe, who styled himself Baron Corvo. Johnson’s Skipton carries calling cards which declare him a “Knight of the Order of Saints Cyril and Methodius” an honor he claims was bestowed upon him as a baby by the King of Bulgaria. Skipton is a destitute Englishman and writer living abroad in Belgium. I would challenge any reader to find another fictional undervalued literary genius to rival Daniel Skipton. Each day in his tiny room on the top floor of his boarding house, he works on his magnum opus, getting out his colored pencils to go over his manuscript.

“He had always known that, as a work of art, it was beyond criticism. How could one criticize a thing that was perfect? Yet today it seemed to him that he was writing a masterpiece of such universal appeal that riches were within his grasp, the joy of lordliness, the majesty of the peaceful mind in the well-fed-body. He had only to finish the novel, and all would be well.”

Through Daniel Skipton, Johnson shows the worst sides of writers. Skipton is desperate for adoration and validation from his literary peers and success among the reading public. His only published novel, The Damask and the Blood, failed to make enough sales to earn out his advance, which makes the threatening letters he sends to his publishers demanding more money even more absurd. He is sure that his next book will make him the star of the literary world and fabulously wealthy. Until that time comes though, he must survive on his small allowance from a cousin whom he blackmails as well as writing book reviews for London papers, and the nefarious schemes he concocts upon unsuspecting tourists in Bruges.

Johnson’s novel finds its inciting incident in Skipton’s introduction to a group of British tourists, headed by the esteemed playwright Dorothy Merlin. Her snobbishness and success fuel a deep hatred in Skipton, which, over the course of the novel, progresses like the stages of a volcanic eruption. Dorothy is traveling with three companions: Cosmo Hines, a London bookseller and the only member of their party familiar with Skipton’s work; Duncan Moss, an often-drunk ne’er-do-well photographer who is desperate to befriend Skipton, and who continuously causes him problems; and Matthew Pryar, a favorite of English newspaper society pages, whose upper-class manners and aristocratic connections make him the only one in the group Skipton has any real interest in. Skipton, having been counting what little money he has left just before meeting them, quickly plots to dine out on their hospitality and line his pockets over the course of their time in Bruges.

In his self-aggrandizing way, Daniel Skipton is a self-proclaimed gentleman, as though he were straight out of the early 1800s when in the reality of the 20^th century setting of the novel, the term does hold the weight he applies to it. However, there is duality to Daniel Skipton, the gentleman and the scammer. He uses his gentlemanly persona to cover his tracks as an active member of the seamy side of Bruges. His associates of madams, exotic dancers, and third-rate antique dealers are all too familiar with his ways. Early in the novel, after carefully placing hints with Duncan, Skipton is requested by the men of Dorothy’s party to arrange a visit to Mimi’s, a seedy night club, for a “spectacle”—i.e. a sex show. At first, Skipton refuses to even entertain the request, protesting that as a gentleman he couldn’t possibly discuss such things in front of a lady. After enough push back from Dorothy, however, and in fear he may lose his chance to profit off of them, he eventually agrees to arrange an excursion to Mimi’s, where Johnson provides a riotous description of a burlesque show in an incense-filled room, which amuses and titillates the men and leaves Dorothy in a foul mood.

Having proved himself a gatekeeper to the disreputable, Cosmo—Dorothy’s husband and father of her seven sons—asks Skipton to arrange a trip for him to a house of ill repute. Cosmo refuses to make love with Dorothy out of fear they will have yet another child. Skipton once again protests loudly, before agreeing to the request. He pays a visit to Madame Houdin, the madam who will host Cosmo, and attempts to negotiate a higher commission for himself only to fail. After Cosmo’s night at Madame Houdin’s, hilarity ensues when Skipton returns to the brothel, desperate to collect his commission so he may pay his rent, and discovers that Madame Houdin has died. He refuses to believe it and causes a scene at her doorstep, only to be sent packing by the deceased madam’s neighbors. In the hands of another writer, such a macabre scene would likely fail, but Johnson’s deft management of tone keeps the whole thing darkly hilarious.

Johnson wields her weapons of absurd hilarity to poke fun at both successful writers and unsuccessful writers in a particularly memorable scene where Skipton attends Dorothy’s lecture entitled “The Responsibility of the Poet-Playwright in the Welfare State”. The hubristic Skipton expects Dorothy to single him out as one of the greatest living writers, and when she of course does not, his fury leads to catastrophic consequences. Simultaneously, Johnson does not hold back in making it obvious that the pseudo-intellectual playwright Dorothy Merlin is herself filled with her own boring hubris as her talk drones on and on.

Throughout the novel, Johnson leaves a trail of breadcrumbs for the reader, hinting that Skipton is not as smart or cunning as he would have people believe. He is blinded by his desire to be seen as the gentleman he so insistently claims that he is, and by his indefatigable belief in his own genius. Skipton’s biggest mark comes in the way of another tourist, Count Flavio Querini of Venice. He has also attached himself to Dorothy Merlin and her companions while in Bruges. Believing that the Count is a wealthy cosmopolitan member of the European elite, Skipton attempts over the course of the novel to sell the Count a worthless old painting he is trying to pass off as an undiscovered work by a Flemish master. The only problem for Skipton is that the Count is fixated on his dream of performing a concert at London’s Wigmore Hall for the BBC. The more of the Count the reader gets to know, the more dubious he becomes. In the final pages of the novel, Skipton has nearly sealed the deal on selling the painting to the Count, but he is cornered into a dilemma that will make or break his scheme. I won’t give away the ending, but Johnson wields her comic writing masterfully up until the very last sentence.

The Unspeakable Skipton leaves no doubt in my mind that Pamela Hansford Johnson is due for a revival in readership, and is worthy of being on the same shelf as authors like Waugh, Mitford, and Spark. After its initial release, the novel was successful enough that she wrote two more books in what is referred to as the Dorothy Merlin trilogy. Johnson’s characters are absurd but believable, none of them caricatures. Ultimately, Daniel Skipton and Dorothy Merlin serve as excellent humorous reminders to not take oneself too seriously, else you’ll be made to look a fool. When I’d finished reading The Unspeakable Skipton, I was left with a renewed sense of appreciation for the comic literary novel. The Unspeakable Skipton has recently been republished, and I for one hope more of Johnson’s novels are soon to follow.

Author’s note: This review was rejected by Slightly Foxed, thus it has appeared here. However, I shall not be discouraged and shall continue on writing.

You can purchase this recently republished novel from McNally Editions by clicking here.

Rita Bullwinkel’s debut novel Headshot has no table of contents. Instead, it opens with a poster for the 12th Annual Women’s 18 & Under Daughters of America Cup at Bob’s Boxing Palace in Reno, Nevada, and a tournament bracket filled in with the names of eight girls.

The competitors of the Daughters of America Cup are high school girls. They come from different ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds, but they all share the same goal—victory.

Bullwinkel’s novel, which has since become a Pulitzer Prize finalist and was longlisted for the Booker Prize, signals the beginning of an exciting literary career. At 207 pages, Headshot packs its punches. Like the boxers in the ring, Bullwinkel wields her prose in quick bursts, often jumping perspectives four or five times on a single page.

For the competitors this tournament will be a memory from their adolescence. Two days in July, spent in Reno, gone in the wink of an eye. In the glory days of their youth, at the peak of their physical strength, the girls of the Daughters of America Cup will see their hard work largely go unnoticed.

Each young boxer has her own reasons for attending the tournament and her own motivations for winning. Bullwinkel weaves the reader through the current action of each bout, the circumstances that led them to the fight, and what each girl’s future holds. Bout by bout, the chapters contract as the reader’s knowledge of each character expands. With each subsequent fight more characters are introduced, widening the scope of perspectives Bullwinkel can jump to.

For most of the novel, these shifts in perspective are successful, allowing the reader to understand what each contestant is thinking and feeling, while also zooming out to the room of no more than a dozen spectators to provide a true sense of the stakes. None of these girls are professional boxers—and none of them ever will be.

Every match in Headshot brings its own unique sense of tension. The eight girls all have their own boxing styles. They employ specific techniques and some even visualize themselves as elements or objects. Rachel Doriko thinks “I’m wildfire;” while Kate Heffer is “counting the ration of a circle’s circumference compared to its diameter,” as she boxes.

Each of the eight main characters trained for months, if not years, to reach this tournament, a fact Bullwinkel repeatedly emphasizes. Their bodies are described as a “toned cut of meat,” and “a thin smashed cutlet,” and as “bundles of dry pasta covered in skin.” Throughout the novel there is blood, sweat, saliva, and tears.

After all their hard work, these young girls will return to their regular lives. They have taken headshots and gut punches; they are the best young women boxers in the country, and they can’t even draw a crowd of more than twelve people. All the spectators are either family members, coaches, referees, journalists, or other girls who have already lost their matches.

Interestingly, the perspectives of their coaches—all men—are never shown, though they haunt the edges of the boxing ring. Bullwinkel writes “The language of the coaches inside Bob’s Boxing Palace is like a large overhead fan.” The girls’ coaches fade into the background as specters.

These girls fight and train in the hopes of becoming the champion, and when they leave Reno, no one will know their names. Even the trophy they are fighting for is underwhelming: “a small plastic gold cup. … affixed to a small four-by-four plaqueless marble stand.” While their boxing peers may recognize their success (although bitter feelings may stop them from congratulating each other), there will be no brand deals, no large social media followings, no college scholarships, and no televised post-victory interview.

The main strength of Headshot lies in its depictions of the interior monologues of its protagonists. This novel, about women’s boxing, was released on the heels of what might arguably be the most attention women’s sports has received in recent history, with the attack on trans athletes' rights as a centrical issue of American politics. Yet, Bullwinkel’s novel is not concerned with the outrage du jour. Instead, it focuses on the skill and dedication of these young women boxers: what drives them to want to win, and the impacts boxing will and will not have on their futures.

These characters are aware that they are fighting in a microcosm. They can see what a shit-hole Bob’s Boxing Palace is. They were not expecting large crowds to be there cheering them on. They have made the trek to Reno to satisfy a fire within themselves and to test their abilities against the other best 18 and under women boxers in the country. At its core, the novel is an exploration of the world of teenage girl athletes—the determination of the competitors and the neglect they receive from the world around them. Headshot shows how much work goes into these sports and how little recognition they gain from them.