"Uniquely American?" or "Typically British?"

After reading a selection of John Cheever's stories I must admit that it was only due to different literary components such as the language and setting in each piece that I came to realise Cheever's American nationality.
American spelling and local dialect instantly rang bells, and after studying the stories more in depth I realised how the continually evolving new world/industrial America in turn effected the character's emotions and attitude.
Ann Enright states that the honest reflection was for her "A breath of fresh air [...] he was alcoholic and bisexual which gave his work a bit of an edge [...] the dreamlike metaphorical nature calls to me."
This made me realise just how important our life experiences are when creating characters, and also how a writer must experience a setting in order to create a character to place in it. I'm not sure Cheever would still be considered uniquely American if he placed his typical thirty-something New Yorker in a different country or had an immigrant as the story's protagonist in New York?
So what might make a piece uniquely British? I feel that the work would be slower paced and more reflective on the character's emotions and decisions. Cheever's work tends to be more motivated by prosperity and survival in a still hostile and evolving new world. For example, when Cheever completed the piece The Enormous Radio in 1947, he dealt with a sense of paranoia towards society's obsession with people's private lives. A year later, J. R. R Tolkein completed The Lord of the Rings, a powerful and creative yet relatively conventional story of good versus evil.

J. R. R. Tolkein                                                                                                John Cheever


























Creative Piece: A Typically British story.

There was no traffic on the London Streets, yet the vibrant lights and the crowds made the event seem more like the Christmas eve rush or another fashion product launch. She couldn't feel her legs anymore her calf muscles had tensed up an hour ago. All that was driving her now was the glucose in her bloodstream and the caffeine pinning her eyes open. Her moving legs seemed alien to her brain now asthough sprinting of their own accord. With her free hand she pulled out the remaining jelly squares from her tracksuit pocket and bit into them, chewing took some real effort now, the raspberry taste was intense despite the dryness of her mouth.
She turned the corner to the final street and was hit with the roar of the sidelining crowd. The final mile flag flickered violently in a sudden gust of wind. She checked her watch, timing was good. She gripped the torch firmly in her hand, and continued alternating when her palm became too sweaty.