Oh what to say, what to say? I feel like it's been forever since I posted anything here of real consequence. It really has been has been, hasn't it. Even still as I sit here, with the sun finally breaking through the clouds outside my window, I doubt I have much to add to the blogging world at this particular moment, and yet my fingers itch to dance across the keyboard. Do other people out there feel this way ever? It seems as if life were so filled with the mundane at the moment that I'm at a loss to report anything exceptional or amazing. Anything that would raise up the interest of those who read my little corner of the blogosphere. Perhaps, that is not all bad though. In a way it reminds me of the ever lovely Miss Jane Austen.
"What?!" you say, furrowing your brow in consternation! I'd dare call Austen mundane and lacking of amazingness. Hold your horses there friends, let me explain, why perhaps that is the best thing about her. And why perhaps, it's okay then, in today's musings, I too can be content in my writing.
I have been on a huge Austen kick at the moment. The complete works of Miss Austen sit next to me at the moment on my night stand, several passages and pages dog-eared. If you look at my netflix que it is filled as far down as you can imagine with Regency era BBC specials, and Hollywood adaptations of the Austen staples. For whatever reason, there is something in Jane's work that is resonating with my soul at the moment, as it does with so many others. Yesterday as I was reading the introduction to a Jane Austen book by the woman who penned, "Becoming Jane,' I think I found the answer. It dawned on me that unlike so many of the page turning novels of her era, Miss Austen's work revolved around the mundane of upper middle class life at the time. The heroines of her book were common in the most delightful sense of the word. Young unmarried girls, of some status (mostly) who went about a good portion of the book doing what people really did back then-- drinking tea, sewing, calling on other women, and trying to find a husband. There was no outlandish or high strung plots and twists. Simply, the tales-- though romanticised greatly-- were sketches and chronicles of an every day English life. Yet, we as the readers delight in them, do we not? Particularly, as women, we all strive to be some form of Emma Woodhouse, Lizzy Bennet, or the sharp witted Fanny Price.
So few of us in the world are ever going to end up being Lady Catherines, a Lady Dalrymple, or even a Mrs. Allen, that I think we relate to the 'realness' of Austen's heroines. I've often thought that if I could live in any era of distant history, I'd be very happy to live in Austen's world of the Regency era. The goals and dreams of the women at that time, in a simplified way align so with the aspirations I, myself, hold. To have a husband who will love me, and support me. To be a good mother, to be an engaged and socially delightful friend. To be well educated and cultured, and to spend my days engaging in pleasant things that make me happy. Simplified, yes, but when painted with Austen's brush wouldn't we all enjoy it, if only for a time.
This then, rolls around to where I began this post. My lack of posting for fear of the mundane. Though I do not suppose myself by any stretch of the imagination to be anything resembling Miss Jane Austen, when it comes to the pen, perhaps I can present the mundane even as delightful. It's all in perspective, is it not? Maybe life, as I know it now (as well as many others I know) is simply a continuation of where Jane left off. It's simply what you'd find if you turned the page and it were several years down the road in Lizzy Bennet or Emma Woodhouse's life. And if presented with same delight and colourfulness, which Austen painted for these lives before, why not then, can the everyday be something quite engaging? I thoroughly think it can.
But after all, this is just the musings of a 'partial, prejudice, and ignorant...' blogger.