Evidence of V: A Novel of Fragments, Facts, and Fictions
By Sheila O’Connor
Rose Metal Press $16.95
Reviewed by Whitney (Walters) Jacobson
When I first read a synopsis of Sheila O’Connor’s novel Evidence of V: A Novel in Fragments, Facts, and Fictions (Rose Metal Press; Novel and Short Story 2020 Minnesota Book Award winner), I was skeptical about the structure but intrigued given the book is based in Minnesota. Evidence of V follows the speculated life of V, O’Connor’s obscure maternal grandmother, through her time as a nightclub show girl, her unplanned pregnancy and incarceration for immorality, and her efforts to escape systems of questionable benefit to those unwillingly detained within them.
The book’s format sets up readers to feel as if they are investigating V’s history with O’Connor. Beginning with questions, “Where to start V’s story? / V at fifteen in 1935? / V sentenced until twenty-one, for what?” (1), O’Connor goes on to present parts of the files uncovered by the family along with historic passages from newspapers, government documents, books, and case files. The facts and fragments are woven together and made significant by the narrative O’Connor crafts from them.
O’Connor’s grandmother’s fractured documented life is mirrored not only in the mosaic of facts, fragments, and fictions O’Connor assembles, but also in each chapter. Many chapters are one page, with the longest being five pages. The short chapters can make for quick reading, but to read too quickly is to risk overlooking a precious detail, for O’Connor expects the reader read between the lines as she needed to.
Some chapters have titles, some do not. One chapter consists of the chapter title: “What V Hears from Mr. C” (214). Other chapters consist of a quotation pulled from a document, such as admission statistics (166) or a training program (150-151). Still others are comprised of bracketed musings of O’Connor: “[The inheritance of silence. / Silence as survival.]” (203) or numbered narrative progressions (123-126). The shifting format initially may cause confusion as the reader strives to establish a reading rhythm and to discern characters, events, and connections between pieces of information. However, the chapters ultimately come together, like a scrapbook, to portray a compelling, if potentially incomplete, story.
O’Connor’s use of brackets additionally situates her as a character within the text and encourages readers to form certain conclusions:
The choice to involve herself and her experiences intrigued me the most about the construction of the book. Had the book been written as a traditional novel, I don’t think O’Connor would have needed to include herself. Could she have removed herself from the fragmented structure? I suppose, but the passages written from her perspective push the reader to reflect in ways the narrative doesn’t or the fragments can’t. Including herself humanizes the story and places some responsibility on the reader—the line between fact and fiction is blurred, making it harder to distance oneself from unpleasant realities, both past and present, that are important to confront.
Whitney (Walters) Jacobson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University Moorhead. Her poetry and creative nonfiction have been published in Punctuate, Feminine Collective, Up North Lit, After the Pause, and In the Words of Womyn International, among other publications. She is currently working on a collection of essays exploring skills, objects, and traits passed on (or not) from generation to generation. She maintains a curiosity in memoir and the themes of feminism, water, inheritance, blue-collar work, and grief.