Dear Jane, part II

Dear Jane, 


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 silver golden platter, and it was as if you'd read my mind.


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.
Simple.


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.
Simple...


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?


~M.