On a particularly difficult day last week, I vented a bit on a social network, and one of my friends replied: "...remember, you're a writer, you are supposed to feel more than normal people. How else would you know how to describe it for them?"
Think about it. How many of the the greatest writers of history had pretty, peaceful lives? That kind of existence just doesn't seem to spawn deep, empathetic literature that grabs the heartstrings and makes us feel like the author understands.
In the past few years, my daughters have turned me into a Jane Austin fan. As I've seen yet another generation of girls moved by what would seem the very particular romance of an era long gone--a generation immersed in technology, women's liberation, and anything-goes morality connecting with extremely verbose banter on the subject of propriety and the ethics of the seeming necessity of gold-digging in a world in which women could not fend for themselves, I've realized how much I too can identify with Jane's characters who yearn for what appears to be ironic and impossible: love, passion, and freedom intermingled with that innate drive for security.
What incredible timing for a first viewing of Becoming Jane!
Being new to the single mother thing, and receiving absolutely no support from Todd, I have been struggling to figure out how I'm going to make ends meet. I think Todd's plan is to financially ruin me and then wait for me to beg him to come back with his daddy's money. Unfortunately, my emotional condition of late has not been conducive to finding work, and I am going further in debt while trying to figure out reliable income that doesn't take me away from my kids while they need me most (and that doesn't prevent me from continuing to pursue my passion for writing). I'm starting to see why so many women in this situation are quick to get in another relationship--the prospect of security is alluring when desperation hits.
But the "typical" route has always been something I avoid at all costs. That's why I said when I was still single that if I had gotten pregnant, I probably wouldn't have married Todd because that would be "trite." That's also why, when we did decide to get married I had to hurry up and do it in May, so as to avoid the commonness of a June wedding. (Instead of rushing, perhaps dragging my feet would have been a better choice, but then that's a different story--good choices were obviously not my forte.)
So now, I look at men with great trepidation. Going it alone is scary, but getting entangled with another Mr. Wrong is even scarier.
There are two types of Mr. Wrongs: (1) the guy who I just "settle for" because I'm lonely, and he destroys my heart because there isn't the deep connection I long for, and (2) the guy I feel a deep connection to but I can't have because it would hurt others if I did. Number 2 is what this movie made me think of... and seeing how Jane Austen--after nobly choosing to walk away from Tom Lefroy--lived out the rest of her life alone, with her writing as the only outlet for her passion--that is what I see myself doing, too.
Maybe the memory of true passion is better than a substitute. Who was truly richer in passion at the end of the Becoming Jane story? Tom who had taken a substitute? or Jane, who continued her life alone? Both carried the heartache of loss due to that noble choice with them, but look at all Jane went on to create.
Just a thought. Maybe it's the meaningless effect of the stage of grieving I find myself in presently. Maybe my heart will change someday. But for now, it seems the only way. Maybe it's just the melodrama of the movies--a contrivance of dramatic structure--that says some things only come once in a lifetime, and if their timing is wrong, they are tragically lost forever....
Dreamy James McAvoy's portrayal of Tom Lefroy's feelings for Jane Austen was pure adoration. A friend told me that I was too much of a hopeless romantic to be alone for the rest of my life... but watching this movie made me realize that such a statement may overlook the core of such romantic passion--the fact that it might be precisely because someone is a "hopeless romantic" that they end up alone, unwilling to settle for a substitute for what they once glimpsed. Even if painful, the memory can be better. The hopeless romantic, thus, can become the hopeful artist.
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