Gimme two letters that spell perfection. And master's degrees. But mostly perfection

(Possible alternate subtitle: "In loose, altogether random, and likely unnecessary defense of the queen godmum of chicklit".)

If you'll pardon what might be a pseudopun, Jane Austen's Emma is about as textbook a case there is of how to write a novel, where novels are based on the problem/solution model of plot advancement. In this model, you can read pretty much every novel as a mystery, plus or minus genre conventions. Sure, you won't find private detectives and styrofoam cups of coffee in Emma, but you will find the driving motive of tension being generated through the solutions to existing problems creating new difficulties that must in turn be solved. There isn't a murder to be solved with bucketloads of other dangers and obstacles created along the way while dealing with plentiful red herrings; but there is the desired outcome of Emma's eventual happiness that has to be reached through the process of overcoming social maneuverings and flubs, some external and some created by the heroine herself, made all the more complex through blatant misdirection. Problems create solutions create problems.

To see how a novel works, you could do worse than to spend some time with Emma. Sure, it might feel a bit sloggish in the middle, and the endgame feels a little random and drawn out, but the basic structure of it is all there, plain as day. It's funny, but of all the books to be reminded of while I was reading Emma, I was reminded of The Age of Wire and String by Ben Marcus, which I read earlier this year, which, to be honest, I didn't really "get". Now I think I get it: Marcus's "novel" is one of all problems, no solutions. Tension without release, crescendo without crash. Not that I'm saying I'll understand the book any better if I come back to it, but at least maybe Jane Austen is reminding me of, ahem, my roots. (While I'm here: Infinite Jest? Mostly problems, huge crescendo; but the band takes the resolution off stage. Or something.)

One might also make a case for Emma as an epic--hero takes a journey (in this case, a social journey) and comes back changed--but I'll save that for later.