I’ve been thinking lately about getting out my old copy of Little Women. I don’t know how many times I read it as a child, out loud with my mother (when we’d cry every single time) and to myself. I loved that book so so so much.
I love the characters. I loved thinking Meg and Beth were nice and Marmee was a great mom and Amy was a bitch and I loved relating to Jo like all young writergirls are compelled to do. I remember being a little cranky that Jo was so anti-girl things because I was such a girly little kid, but now I think Jo totally had the right idea. I’m still into girly things, ruffles and pretties and berry-flavored drinks and stuff, but I am by no means “girly” in the traditional sense.
I love the setting. I love imagining pretty Civil War times, because I know it wasn’t all pretty, but the clothes, and the balls, and the architecture, well, it’s gorgeous. I’ve got the pictures the movie gave me, but I elaborate a little in my head.
I love the story. I love Part I, all whimsy and childhood adventure. I love reading about them putting on ridiculous melodramas in their attic and writing the Pickwick Paper and going boating and going to balls and Meg learning that peer pressure Isn’t Fun.
I love how emotional I get. The last time I watched the movie, at least, I didn’t cry but I got very wibbley and sad and it was cathartic.
Why do these books only have to be for children? This, Anne of Green Gables… other things? I know my mom enjoyed reading them with me, and she was an adult. Still is. Why not read them again? I… think that I might. I’ve talked myself into it.
–your fangirl heroine.