I was once told in creative writing class that it is possible to imitate almost any writer, except Janet Frame. Her writing is so hers that it cannot be copied without simply writing as yourself, which would not be copying her style at all, and for most of us, would not be nearly as endearing to read.

When Janet Frame died in 2004, I was in the United States visiting my sister. I had just received word that I was going to attend the Writing the Novel Honours course at Auckland University. Janet Frame had always been (and still is) my writing hero.

While I understood that I could never begin to write like she did, I looked to her for inspiration. To be so original that nobody can copy you: to the writer in me, that is true success. My father emailed to tell me that she had died, and I remember that I stared at the computer screen for quite a while, taking in the news. I didn’t know her personally, but throughout my teenage years it was as if she was saying all the things I felt. She made it okay to be different; more than okay, better.

Janet Frame was born in Dunedin in 1924. She grew up in Otago, one of five kids in a family with little money. The Frame family suffered poverty, illness and tragedy. Two of Janet’s sisters died from drowning in two separate incidents ten years apart. Another child died at three months. Horror seemed to lurk even in the schoolyard, where Janet felt (and probably was) misunderstood. But as every artist finds refuge in their art form at some point, Janet’s was introduced to her by a book-loving, storytelling family.

In her first novel, Owls Do Cry, the character that represents Janet often quotes poetry and verse in an attempt to understand what is going on. In words, she could find some sense, her own sense and expression, and this is where her art began. As a child, Janet was painfully shy. She had bright red curls and felt oppressed by her looks, her family’s poverty and by her personality.

She had a sense of not fitting in wherever she went, in the conservative and materialistic Central Otago of the time. She looked upon the outside world as an ominous place filled with danger and oppression. Even nature seemed to close in on Janet. In Owls Do Cry, which is mainly autobiographical, she views the sea, with its dangerous undertow, as a threat. In her short story, The Lagoon, the stagnant water seems to represent the society she lives in, with its inability to change and its static, silty rules for behaviour.

As dramatised in the film adaptation of Janet’s autobiography, An Angel At My Table, directed by Jane Campion, Janet decided on teacher’s college when she left school. This was probably due to the fact that there were not many options for girls at the time, but I wonder if it was also an attempt to slip into a structure where she did not fit.

A moment from the movie that stands out for me is when she must teach in front of a visiting inspector. She stands in front of the class for a few moments, then freaks out and runs crying out the door and into the bush.

Whether this is simply an artistic rendition by Campion or close to reality, it can be seen as a symbol for what she really wanted - to be secluded in the trees, rather than standing in front of a crowd. Figuratively, she would end up standing above the crowd as a world-renowned writer, but in truth she could hide away with her art. Writing is an art form that allows fame from a distance. A writer need never meet their audience. This suited Janet perfectly.

Having left the idea of teaching behind her, Janet continued to write. The powers that be, however, decided that she was not of a sound mind. After fleeing from class and in the wake of several other antisocial incidents in her late teens and early twenties, Janet was sent to see a series of psychologists and doctors, who decided that she was suffering from a then little-known condition called schizophrenia. She was put in a psychiatric ward with people who were quite obviously brain damaged and disturbed.

After enduring over 200 electric shock treatments in her 20s, all of which (obvious to us now) did more damage than good, it was decided that Janet would have a lobotomy to “cure” her unusual personality. This personality had meanwhile grown more antisocial, having spent almost all her 20s locked away from society. The cure was proving to be the cause as well. In the meantime, Dr John Money, her lecturer from Otago University where she had studied teaching, had collected together her stories and sent them in to be published as her debut collection, The Lagoon. In 1951, when the lobotomy was scheduled to take place, her collection won the Hubert Church Memorial Award.

Janet was removed from the hospital and saved from a huge operation, which would have removed any sense of her as a person.  Even this, to me, is somewhat ironic. In a society where it was felt that Janet did not fit, only success of the widely recognised kind could make people see that she was not necessarily psychologically inept, but simply original. It poses the question: does fame prove we are acceptable? These are the kind of questions Janet Frame discusses, through metaphor, imagery and nature, in her stories. Her fiction has an awful lot to say about New Zealand society, even in the present day.

After leaving the hospital, Frank Sargeson, a very famous New Zealand writer who died in 1982, took her in. He allowed her the space and time to write in his house on the North Shore of Auckland. She wrote Owls Do Cry while under his wing. This effort was awarded with critical acclaim both at home and overseas, leading Janet to consider travel. She left the country with the feeling that if she didn’t, she would be back in hospital for life. Janet still believed that she had schizophrenia, as did those around her. Finding her feet in London, she realised that life doesn’t have to be as black and white as 1950s New Zealand.

In London, she was accepted and allowed to be anonymous, just as she liked it, while still being able to people-watch and write to her content. She was finally independent and happy. On top of this, it was acknowledged by British doctors that she had been misdiagnosed. The only thing “wrong” with Janet Frame was her painfully shy nature. By being allowed to be alone and different, Janet found herself gravitating towards that which she formerly ran from, the company of others. What she found was a society of writers who were just like her. She made some good friends in London and abroad, attended writer’s groups and even had a love affair.

For the last seven years of her life, Janet Frame lived in New Zealand, flitting between small town, city and country bach. She did not stay in one place for long and again shunned company and fame, as if having experienced other people, she was again done with them. She avoided award ceremonies and book meets. She became a hermit and was happy this way.

It is difficult to grasp fiction as simply made-up, as even when reading a novel we are prone to suggestion about the author’s reality. But, because Janet was happier as a reclusive person, it is apt that she is remembered purely through her work. Janet Frame’s writing is un-imitable because it is so insightful and subtle. I don’t think this is something that is possible when you have much of another person’s input. When you show someone your work, you lose a little of yourself in the process. By not showing anyone, and by hiding from the results of even your most successful work, you maintain a completely unbiased view.

By looking at the work of Janet Frame you can see the person she was. And while she was probably pleased with her success as a writer, she did not care to bask in the glory by becoming a public figure.

Janet Frame is the perfect example of a New Zealand woman who has overcome the most incredible adversity to be not just a success at what she does, but also a happy, independent person. To be happy with yourself without the need for constant reassurance: To the woman in me, that is success.

Camille Butler