Alas, the females of our world—if they don’t find themselves a willing rich man—are bequeathed a life of obligation, forever beholden to the kind heart of some charitable relative to provide a roof that does not leak, a fireplace that does not smoke, and a meal that might occasionally contain meat. Such is our lot if we don’t marry well.

Ah, the burdens of imagination . . . when the evening didn’t play out according to my carefully created dialogue and staging, my disappointment grew to such an extent that others asked of my infirmity.

Mother shakes a finger. “Love is no game.” Although I hold with my contention, I don’t argue with her. For as with games, love is rife with strategies. It demands patience and extends just out of reach—the lure and promise of a winner. As well as a loser.

Children are the true riches of one’s life.

My stories wrap around me like a cozy quilt, and sometimes I long to pull that quilt over my head and pin the blanket shut, allowing me to immerse myself in the world vivid in my mind.

When I read a novel I’m not here. I’m transported to far-off places, my eyes unseeing of the words on the page, busy with a scene being played out in my mind’s eye, with my ears engaged, hearing the voices carry from the pen to the present. What a lovely place to be—not here.

Once again I place a hand upon the pages that are mine, all mine. Until now? Until someone beyond the family reads the words? I shiver at the thought with dread— And yes, excitement.

Five children in six years. Perhaps in their new manor home my brother and his wife should consider separate bedrooms.

Home. There is no sweeter word. I could fill a page with but that word and it would still not collect the credit it’s due.

We flirted shamelessly. We felt the stirrings of desire that come with such attention. And perhaps amid the stirrings, we even felt the seed of love being planted. But it was not fed nor watered nor tended. And so it died.

I am being expected to read it—during our visit. Although I love novels, my aunt’s presumption offends. I vow never to do such a thing to others—if I ever get published. If they wish to read my work, I will be pleased, but I will not force it upon anyone. Ever.

1800. I still find it difficult to write the number, and too many letters suffer a smudge as I err on the date. This change of year from one century to the next is sobering, as if something more is expected from each of us, as if the chasm between December thirty-first and January first is deep and wide, and in order to pass over it one must take stock with self-probing questions: What have I done with my life? What shall I do with the rest of it?

“You try. If you don’t ask the question, the answer is no.”

I have prospects—though neither they nor I know it. After all, ’tis I who danced nearly every dance at the balls this season. I am not a wallflower but a flower yet to fully bloom.

I don’t dwell in that place of maybes or possibilities. I am happy now, and now is what sustains me.

“You will never know what you can be until you try. Even the Bible speaks of the shame in keeping a light hidden under a basket. We must let the world see you shine, Jane. And I will do my best to make that happen.”

“You are a novelist now. A real novelist.” I both revel and am petrified by the title. “If that is true, then I must do what novelists do. I must become what I am. I must write.”

More words don’t necessarily mean the best words.

I’ve been told that after I was christened at the age of fourteen weeks, I was sent away until I was nearly two and more manageable. All of my siblings were done so as well. Of course, I don’t remember this, and yet . . . I’ve often wondered if I would have become a different sort if I had owned a mother who doted and coddled me. Cuddled me. Cooed to me. Would Mother and I be closer now? Or would I have become too dependent on love instead of feeling the need to guard myself from its very existence? It’s not that I don’t need love. I do. But I’m wary of it. Once given, will it be accepted? Or will it be removed? Of course, I’ve always had Cassandra to love me. As a sister and a mother.

I wish I could say their parting comes too soon. But I’m greatly comforted that it will not come later, especially after having witnessed the full extent of their house-guest shortcomings. As it is, I hope my memories will fail by the next time they develop an inclination to come call.

“If only women ruled the world,” I say. They are silent and stare after me. “Surely we could do no worse,” I offer.

People don’t always make wise choices. People don’t always have control over the choices made to them. People don’t always become all they should be. And yet . . . even within the complicated weavings of life, people can find happiness. If they chuse to seek it . . . differently. It is a question of survival. Adapt or perish. Learn or be defeated. Venture ever forward or cease to be. Life is not a fairy tale, and happily-ever-after has many measures. 

’Tis a part of the writing life to hear what one does not want to hear.