It

Is

A

Truth

Universally

Acknowledged………..

………. That I am not Jane Austen.

Though in most ways I would very much like to be. Putting pen to page is an art form. The creation of the curves and sounds and poetry of the words, the images that we painstakingly paint in the minds of our readers, pen poised as readily as the artist faces the easel. There is no feeling like it in the world. The actual feeling of writing on paper, the transferrence of the mind to the waiting page, gives us this connection to nature, a profound one at that, which inspires a sublime sensation. The sensation that we are part of something much greater than ourselves. No artist was more a master of her craft, with her hues of humor, writings of wit & wonder, and her strokes of genius than Miss Jane Austen.

I have a beautiful canvas waiting for my art. Leather bound, supple and soft in texture, it is of the highest quality, and exactly the sort of journal my dear Jane might have constructed her own genius upon. It is cherished, beloved, admired and…….. altogether blank. Why, you may ask? Because I am not Jane Austen. Strangley enough, in respects to my writing, to even compare myself to my most respected, revered, role model, this brilliant young woman, my closest of fictional female influences, and at a time, my dearest of friends seems, in practice, blasphemous.

The truth is I’m intimidated by lovely, leather bound books because I think my writing, my thoughts, are somehow not deserving of such grand enclosure. I wonder if Jane thought similarly, when her father gave her a fine volume for her sixteenth birthday, leather of course, wrap around straps, and with crisp clean pages, pages which she caressed longingly as she sat on the tree swing, her wildly curly brown tresses, escaping from her proper hair pinning and falling down her shoulder. Where would our world be if Jane did not pick her quill from her satchel, and poise it over the clean snow white pages, her mind flooded and dancing with the painted images of balls, a fine brooding, yet handsome young man, a dark eyed, clever girl dressed in a white gown, and matching gloves? A girl that would change his prejudices of life and love forever. A girl that would tame his pride, and humble his soul. Mr. Darcy, and his Miss Bennet.

The world would be at great loss, if dear Jane never saw the writer within herself. Perhaps I too am teeming with Austen potential. Perhaps there is a story within me, begging to let the world hear. A story that the world needs to hear. Perhaps I am much more like Jane than I ever could imagine. Afterall, was not Jane once a bright eyed zealous young woman, dreaming of love, confounded by the fickle nature of men? She most certainly was. Perhaps even in the very state of mind I find myself today. Seeing love blossom all around her, longing for its blooms to fill her life with lovliness and wonder, yet never finding such bountiful bouquets within her reach.

Jane Austen may not have been considered to live the most adventurous of lives, yet this remarkable woman found the adventure and magic in the life she did live. She knew love’s nature, and though she never got to hold it forever in her arms, catch its lingering luster for all enduring time, she would become known as the most romantic of souls. Love was her life, even if she did not have a life of true love. Her voice, her characters, her turn of phrases, whimsical wit, and lovely prose resound through time, and are heard, read, and loved even today.

If Jane was once so very much like me then, perhaps I can grow to be at least a shade of what she is now. We seem so similar in thought and mannerism, why not? I am not Jane Austen, but perhaps I am waiting to be. The only difference between us may be that she took heart and had the courage to write in those leatherbound volumes. She was determined to leave her legacy, determined not to be intimadeted, not to be denied, and I, myself, feel shy in the watchful eye of the world, in the eyes of the lofty literary giants before me. The journal, the fine canvas of a painter of prose, sitting primly on my desk, seems to bekon to me even now, and I wonder if one day I too might be something, someone amazing. Someone remembered. Someone awesome like Austen.

"We Are All Fools In Love."

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