It was a dark and stormy night when I decided I hated everything written by the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen. I know that probably kicks me out of the league of women despite my gender qualifying me but the only thing a woman hates more than green peas is deception.
I know as I scribble away in my garret room (garret because it’s true even in the 21st century, women suffer financially from divorce and I have two behind me, divorces not marriages), that the Bronte sisters and Miss Austen are probably mere pawns in the battle for my psyche.
I also realize that perhaps the Bronte sisters and Miss Austen would have had less infamous influence if Sigmund Freud had died in obscurity but he didn’t. Actually, men don’t do they?
The veil split too late before my eyes that these women were writing fairy tales. You have no idea my suffering. The artist even bohemian atmosphere around me closing in, the impending July thunderstorm and my single paned window looking out on a back alley, opened wide for the storm to enter in. I had stripped down to nothing, my skin absorbing the heat and humidity of summer, even prickling in the anticipation of cold wind, thunder riddled, coming my way. Sense and Sensibility was open before me and the margins, where I had penned notes over the decades of reading the novel, consoled my loneliness.
Yes, Colonel Brandon, even though he wore flannel waistcoats (or something flannel) was a true knight and our young heroine would embrace his calmness, his intellect, his nonexistence?
The storm had not hit, there was time and I knew to keep up my own self-induce façade I had to bring out the big guns. Villette? No, Jane Eyre. Rochester must pave his road to hell and with single-minded passion. Would such a man really have brains enough to covet a mousy little governess over an accomplished coquette?
The storm hit with such a vengeance I jumped and the rain hit my clammy skin like so many needles and the blue-white lightning split the skies before me and I saw the face of God.
Don’t believe me, I don’t care.
He was there beard and all – the Father and in my despair, He did what only a loving, encompassing parent could do, He drove the lesson home.
“I told Adam anything but one thing – he took the one thing.”
“I told Abraham he’d have a son in good time but he had to help it along.”
“David had any woman he wanted, freely but he took the one that didn’t belong to him.
I raised my arms in an appeal to stop, and He did. The storm passed with a shudder and I sat in my garret room cold and damp. The pages of my books, both Austen’s and Bronte’s were damp with rain but not tears.
I’ve not evolved, I have adapted however to reality.