Chapter One "It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."--Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice Jane Austen is a horrific liar. I used to believe that Jane, my Jane, could never be wrong about anything. She was the quintessential authority on all things to do with love, romance, and matrimony. Her complete works were the guidelines and rules I lived my romantic life by: from my first introduction to the Regency period when I'd been fifteen years old, and my best friend's mother begged us to join her in watching the movie Emma -the version with Gwyneth Paltrow in it. How could I not love an author who wrote a book and named it after me? It didn't hurt that I had a lot of the same features as Gwyneth Paltrow: pale blonde hair, pale skin, pale blue eyes. But as I moved into my mid-twenties, and no men ever acted as gallantly as Mr. Knightly or Mr. Darcy, where no one ever called my blue eyes fine or tucked my hair behind my ear, I came to a startling and wretched revelation: Jane never found love. Experience from my collegiate years taught me that it was far better to take advice from people who had walked the walk instead of just talked the talk. Jane died an unmarried woman, which in her day was something disastrous. In my current residence of modern day America, married or not married didn't matter much. But to be unloved . . . that was disastrous. And I spent so much of my time being unloved that I knew something had to change if I wanted a different ending than my once-hero author. I had to stop believing her. The bad thing, the little secret I carried with me all through my liberal education and feminist discussions with my friends as I worked my way to executive levels in my company, was that I loved love. I wanted to be loved and to give love and to fight and make up and smile across the room at the one my heart raced for-smile because I would know he was mine. I wanted it too much and was disappointed too often. Jane and I had to split up. Breaking up with Jane was far worse than breaking up with any boyfriend. I felt as jilted by that lady author from two hundred years ago as I'd ever felt in love. The revelation of Austen-style deceit allowed me to turn my focus to work instead of romance. That shift in focus was how I found myself at the office at the end of a Friday before a holiday weekend instead of chasing ridiculous romantic dreams. Excerpted from Lies Jane Austen Told Me by Julie Wright All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
