When I finally got past that "precocious little brat" stage, I fell in love for the first time (and then the second, and then the third, and so on). His name was Darcy -- but then sometimes it was Knightley, and sometimes it was Wentworth -- it was all a very confusing and heady experience for a girl of seventeen. You handed me these stunning men on a
But then, it wasn't really fair, was it? I got to watch first Lizzie, then Jane, then Emma, Anne, Elinor, Marianne, Catherine and Fanny all win the men of their dreams, and these men were devoted to them, and I thought, well, that's how it is. Sign me up.
And sure, these men had faults. They were prideful and arrogant, bitter and jealous, blind, obtuse and a little too complacent, but the fact is that they woke up, they overcame these faults and showed that what they really were was smart, funny, dedicated, passionate and all-around dreamboats.
So. Okay, I can handle some issues, some rough patches that have to be sanded to reveal the silky-smoothness underneath. I can do that.
You made me think it was simple.
Your heroines were their charming selves, rule-breakers every one of them, and they win in the end.
So why have I yet to see a noble top-hat over the crowds of baseball caps and sideswept bangs?
Not a one in sight.
I have to say, Jane, I'm a little bitter. Every time I read one of your stories, you convince me afresh, but part of me knows I am well on my way into spinsterhood. And it's not that I blame you, exactly, but I can't help but feel a little ill-used. I'm starting to wonder if I can trust you, Jane.
Because if it's simple, where's my hero?
And for that matter, where's yours?