I have a secret. A deep, dark secret that only few know.
Why? You keep no secrets from us, Sara!!!! What?
Oh, every one has them. But it’s time for this one to be opened up like the maggot infested can of beans it is.
Why? We have regular mini-discussions where more and more people find this secret out and ARE AGHAST, I TELL YOU.
Now, first I must disclose one thing. This about how a final product is delivered. Not about the deliverer.
Are we ready? I have truly hated everything I ever read by the Bronte sisters or Jane Austen.
I know, everyone is throwing handkerchiefs in the air and wailing at me, a female writer, for this admonition.
Last night, I was talking with one of my male friends and my husband, and OF COURSE THEY ARE ALL
“THANK GOODNESS. FINALLY. A WOMAN WHO COOKS AND IS SANE.”
Today, I talked to two female friends, and . . . . I don’t know if we’re friends anymore . . . now that I admitted something so shameful.
Here’s the simplest break down I can think of for my rational.
These woman talk 900 words to describe a pot roast, the love interests are always crazy-pants jerks, and nothing really happens.
Except endless, flowery language that makes me want to sit on top of post offices with a squirt gun loaded with vinegar.
It’s not a time period thing. Definitely not.
There were women busting out and into a field where it was a boy’s only club.
I admire Ms. Austen and the Bronte sisters for producing notable pieces during this time period.
Bot so did so many other, amazing writers!
Mary Shelley, Emily Dickinson, George Eliot (yes, a woman), and a few others come out of the 19th century too.
Every one of them writes completely differently in style and theme but I relate to and enjoy their writing SO.MUCH.MORE.
I feel like a traitor to woman kind.
Like, it’s this thing- if you are a well read female, you obviously love these women.
I always am reading 6 books at a time and manage to finish two books a week and I have hated every time I forced myself through one of their respective pieces.
When I was on my bed rests with each kid, with surgeries, or just being flat out sick, I think “Ok. Let’s give this a fair shot again. It will be better.”
I wind up wanting to scald my eyes and tear my hair out.
I’m not going to compare this to 19th century male authors that I enjoy- then I’ll get thrown the sexist chip.
I think this moves into how I prefer great, epic stories to be told. There is a beauty to sparseness. It leaves you to enter the story too.
Now, I shall sit here patiently as you all whisper hateful pittances and throw dirty hankies at me.
It’s okay. I understand.
Glitter and Sparkles,