The Secret Diaries of Charlotte Brontë by Syrie James

Author:Syrie James [James, Syrie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-10-19T11:00:00+00:00

Tears stung my eyes as—twenty-one years later—I stood at the window of our lodgings in Manchester and reflected on the loss of my two beloved sisters. My grief and resentment was as fresh and deep to-day as if the harrowing events had only just occurred. If, at that moment, a genie had granted my dearest wish, I would have asked him to send me back in time to when my sisters were still alive, so that I might embrace them once more; I would have asked, too, for a private moment with my younger self, so that I might provide her with hope, solace, and comfort.

As I sadly processed these thoughts and memories, a realisation struck me; I was suddenly overcome by a chill that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end; it was followed by a surge of heat, and the rapid pounding of my heart.

All at once, I knew what I should write next.

That anguished, lonely little school-girl, so miserable, starved and deprived—whose every thought and feeling I still recalled so vividly, to the depth of my very being—I could write about her.

Drawing on my own experience, I could fearlessly invest that little girl with all the emotion I wished, and deliver the kind of passionate story that I had so enjoyed writing in the past. The idea sent a thrill coursing through me, and my mind continued to work, all in a tumult. My main character should be motherless, I decided—that was something I knew about—and unwanted by the family who raised her. Perhaps she could grow up to be a governess; that was something I knew about, too.

There must be a romance, of course; I could add elements of the strange, the startling, and the harrowing, akin to the tales I had penned in my youth. But this would be no typical novel, I decided, about a young woman of great beauty—no! I would try something very different this time, from the stories I had written, and the books I had read: I would create a small, plain heroine, like myself. I could name her after one of my sisters; but no, that would be too blatant; instead, I would use Emily’s middle name: Jane.

Whether or not such a story would meet with approval from a publisher or the reading public, I could not be certain; I only knew that I must proceed. This was the book I was meant to write next.

I sat down at my desk. I seized a sheet of paper. By the flickering light of a single candle, I dipped my pen in my ink pot.

And I began to write Jane Eyre.

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