First came learning that quite a few of my books have been pirated, which may or may not have contributed to a brief dip in sales and page reads.

Then, on Tuesday, I was in a car accident. I am fine—or at least mostly fine. A bit sore, but nothing is broken, and for that I am very grateful. The car is likely a total loss, and now we get the joy of dealing with insurance and all the rest. I was rear-ended, so the accident was the other driver’s fault, but even when you are not at fault, it is still exhausting.

There have been good things too, however. My son graduates in less than two weeks now, and we have all of that to look forward to—which also means scrambling to clean the entire house before family arrives and preparing for all the chaos that visits tend to bring, both the good and the bad.

We recently celebrated Honors Night, where he received several cords and stoles. Despite a remarkable inability to turn assignments in on time, he is actually quite brilliant. I think I shared somewhere before that he plans to study mechatronics engineering (yes, that is a real word), and someday he hopes to build and program robots and things of that sort.

Altogether, I think the week has left me feeling a bit more reflective than usual, and so I found myself wondering: what are the books you return to again and again?

I am absolutely a rereader. I have no problem revisiting a book over and over if it is one I truly enjoy. Often, when there is an audiobook version, I will listen to it after reading the book itself. Part of that is simply because I can read much faster than I can listen—which may sound strange, but it makes perfect sense in my head. I listen better when it is something familiar.

Even without audio, though, there are books I return to repeatedly.

Linda Wells’s books are very much that for me. I positively love her stories and will reread just about any of them. I have started her Keeping Calm story on AHA several times now, though I still have not made it to the finish line yet. To be fair, neither has she. :) Still, I am convinced it will be brilliant when it is finally complete, and I look forward to that day.

There are others as well. Both Cat Gardiner and Cat Andrews write wonderful stories set in other time periods, and I have loved nearly everything I have read from either of them. Cat Gardiner’s time-travel books are especially good when you want something a bit shorter, though all of her work is worth reading—or rereading. In fact, writing this has reminded me that it is probably time for another reread of the Sanctuary series. That actually sounds like the perfect choice for our upcoming Alaska trip.

Lately, I have also listened to Ship to Shore several times, along with a few other audiobooks. LL Diamond has some excellent ones, and they are perfect for putting on while I clean the house or handle mindless tasks at work. (If only listening to audiobooks while administering state tests were acceptable, though I suspect that might be frowned upon.)

There are dozens of stories and authors I could mention, and I will almost certainly leave some out. Many of my favorites, however, are included on the list Amanda Kai recently put together featuring authors affected by the latest round of pirating.

In times of stress or difficulty, there is something comforting about returning to stories we already know. Perhaps it is the familiarity of them. Perhaps it is revisiting characters who feel almost like old friends. Or perhaps certain books simply meet us differently depending on the stage of life we are in when we pick them up again.

So now I am curious—which books do you find yourself returning to over and over?

Leave a comment

I am stepping back today from my usual posts about Pride and Prejudice to share my thoughts on an entirely different topic.

It is funny—just a few days ago, we were discussing “the olden days” of the Internet at school. Dial-up connections, Napster, downloads that seemed to take seventy-five years, and rotary telephones.

Ironically, the purpose of that meeting was to discuss how schools need to approach artificial intelligence and begin developing policies for its use. A social studies teacher spoke about how much technology has changed within our own lifetimes. The teachers in the room ranged, I would guess, from twenty-eight to fifty—meaning we have witnessed a great deal of that change firsthand. Our students, however, have little understanding of the (now) archaic technology that once felt entirely normal.

It is, first of all, a little unsettling to realise that parts of my childhood now sit in museums as “history.”

Even so, the conversation served as a reminder that piracy is not a new issue.

I sincerely doubt that the music I downloaded from Napster or similar sites was legitimate at the time, but “everybody did it.” At the time, I did not fully understand the far-reaching impact that had on the artists and the many people involved in creating that music.

In recent years, however, it has become impossible to ignore:

Piracy is not a victimless act.

And this week, I was reminded of that in a way that felt far less abstract.

What Happened

Recently, I found my books on a piracy site.

I actually joined the site just so I could comment on my own work and note that it has been posted there without my knowledge or consent. I have filed reports with the site itself, the web host, and with Google, but I cannot guarantee that the site owners—or anyone else—will take action.

🔗 https://www.lokepub.com/search?k=melissa+anne

What unsettled me most was seeing that my newest release already has more than 7,000 views there. I found it completely by accident—searching for a link to share—and then falling down a rabbit hole I wish I had never discovered.

And it is not just me.

There are many JAFF authors on this site, along with countless others. This is not isolated. It is a widespread issue.

Why This Matters

As MJ Stratton shared on her Facebook page, when a book is downloaded or shared illegally, it does not simply mean a lost sale.

It can directly harm an author’s career.

Platforms like Amazon take copyright violations seriously. Authors can face real consequences—including having their books removed or even losing their KDP accounts entirely.

That means:

• Losing income

• Losing visibility

• Losing the ability to publish at all

For many authors, writing is not just a hobby. It is our work, our business, and something we have spent years building. I am fortunate that it is not my sole source of income, but I still invest hundreds of hours into each book—not to mention the time spent editing, revising, formatting, and publishing.

Every pirated copy chips away at that and erodes the ability to sustain that work.

Access Is Not the Problem

I want people to read my books. Truly.

If you have a physical copy, share it. I would love to think my books are passed between friends or sitting on library shelves. Some of you probably deserve a free book or two, and I wish I could give them out more freely than I do. But many of you already are reading my stories on Substack as I post them, and I enjoy your feedback! I am one of several authors who do this, and others post on FFN, AO3, and/or AHA.

That said, most of my books are available through Kindle Unlimited—because I want them to be as accessible as possible. I read a great deal myself, and without KU, I could not read nearly as much as I do.

But there is a difference between access and taking something that is not freely given.

If You Want to Help

If you love books and want to support authors, the best thing you can do is simple:

• Read books through legitimate platforms

• Share books legally

• Report pirated copies when you see them

• Let me know if you come across any of my books posted without permission

If enough people report sites like this, they can at least be removed from search results or flagged with hosting providers.

I am a reader in addition to be being a writer. I know that stories matter and provide the escape many of us want or need from reality—for any number of reasons.

But people who write them matter too.

And while the way we access books has changed dramatically over the years, that truth has not.

I want my stories to be read. I want them to be shared. But I also want them to be respected for the time, effort, and care that goes into creating them.

Thank you, as always, for reading—and for supporting authors in the ways that you do.

Thanks!
Melissa Anne ❤️

Leave a comment

In any case, we’ve already looked at Darcy and his faults, and then at Elizabeth and hers. Yet when considered together, the couple at the heart of Pride and Prejudice are, in many ways, ideally suited.

Elizabeth herself says as much in Chapter 50—at the very moment she begins to believe that Darcy will never offer for her again:

What is particularly striking about this moment is its timing. Elizabeth has just learned that Lydia and Wickham are to marry. She doesn’t yet know of Darcy’s role in securing that outcome, and she believes any possibility between them to be entirely at an end.

For perhaps the first time, she allows herself to see him clearly—without resentment, without wounded pride, and without the influence of others’ accounts. In doing so, she recognises not only her mistake in refusing him, but the extent to which they might have suited one another.

It is, for her, a moment of clarity.

Darcy’s, of course, came earlier—at Hunsford. We aren’t privy to all that occupied his thoughts in the months between her refusal in April and their meeting again at Pemberley. Yet his altered manner—both in his words and in his conduct—makes one thing evident: he has reflected, he has learned, and, perhaps most importantly, he has chosen to forgive.

Our Dear Couple were not always ideally suited. Had they married earlier—had they behaved as they did in canon and, for some reason or another, been forced into marriage—I sincerely doubt their union would have been either successful or happy.

Indeed, this is often borne out in variations where they’re compelled to marry before these changes can occur. Darcy remains too arrogant, Elizabeth too firmly prejudiced against him, and until both come to a clearer understanding of themselves, they’re ill-equipped to make one another happy.

And that, perhaps, is the point: it isn’t simply that they suit one another, but that they only come to do so after each has begun to recognise—and amend—their own faults. Timing, in their case, matters more than we often acknowledge.

So what do you think—would Elizabeth and Darcy have been happy together had they married earlier? Or would they have made one another miserable?

Perhaps that’s why their story endures. It isn’t simply a matter of the compatibility of two individuals, but of their willingness to undergo transformation—and of two people who become exactly what the other needs, at precisely the right time.

Leave a comment

But Pride and Prejudice is not only about Darcy’s pride. This, incidentally, is where I think much of Darcy’s change begins—he is forced, more than once, to set aside that pride after Elizabeth rejects him at Hunsford. He may not alter in his fundamentals, but his behavior, and even the way he views others, shifts in meaningful ways.

But I digress.

The story is also about Elizabeth’s prejudice.

Elizabeth allows the insult at the assembly to color her every opinion of Darcy from that point onward. We like to describe her as clever—and she is, to a degree—but she is also naïve.

Her wounded vanity leads her to see nothing good in Fitzwilliam Darcy. I do find myself wondering—and perhaps it is something to explore another day—how the story might have unfolded had she never heard the insult. Would she still have judged him so harshly? Or might she have viewed him with just enough openness to question Wickham’s account?

But the fact remains: Elizabeth is perceptive—but not infallible. And once she forms an opinion, she clings to it longer than we sometimes admit.

Perhaps it was wounded pride. Perhaps it was an unacknowledged attraction—another “trope” we authors like to employ, making Darcy the most handsome man she has ever seen, only for that attraction to be wounded and turned into resentment. After all, there is a thin line between love and hate, is there not?

Elizabeth herself believes in her own discernment, and not without reason. But we have made a great many assumptions about her—many of them based on only the smallest sliver of evidence.

For example:

• she is a great reader, when in the novel we see her read only occasionally—and she herself claims she is not,

• she is afraid of horses—when it may simply be that she had little opportunity to ride,

• she manages the estate—something I have certainly used myself, as we all like an admirable Elizabeth, but which risks turning her into a “Super Lizzy” who does everything while the rest of her family does very little,

• she is consistently rational, when her early judgements of Darcy are clearly influenced by emotion and wounded pride,

• she is unfailingly kind, when she is capable of sharp judgement and, at times, a cutting wit—no doubt influenced by her father.

None of these interpretations are without merit—but taken together, they have a tendency to smooth Elizabeth’s edges in much the same way we smooth Darcy’s.

How much of this might be true—even in a fictional sense—is open to interpretation, and sometimes drifts into outright invention on the part of the author.

I have read versions of Elizabeth who are not taken in by Wickham’s lies. I have read others where she clings to her prejudice against Darcy so long that I have wanted to step into the pages and slap her a little to make her come to her senses (reading the comments, some of you are decidedly slap-happy, by the way).

It is easy to lose sight of the fact that Elizabeth is, in many ways, quite sheltered. While she may read widely, the average young lady of her station would have had little real understanding of the kinds of depravity that existed beyond her immediate world.

Yes, she is taken in by Wickham—but that is largely because it never occurs to her, for all her intelligence, to question his story. It aligns too neatly with what she already believes. She has already made Darcy into a villain—not only in Wickham’s supposed mistreatment, but also in what she assumes to be his interference in the relationship between Jane and Bingley.

But she is eventually forced to come to terms with the truth.

In the letter, when Darcy explains himself after his proposal, Elizabeth is forced into a moment of realisation. She is confronted not only with the facts of what has transpired, but with the ways in which she has misinterpreted them. I imagine she must read it more than once—perhaps several times—turning it over in her mind until she begins to understand him… and, more importantly, herself.

In fact, after reading the letter, she says:

That line is often quoted, but perhaps not always fully considered. Elizabeth is not simply admitting that she misjudged Darcy—she is acknowledging that she misjudged her own ability to judge.

Just as Darcy must confront his pride, Elizabeth must confront her prejudice.

And like Darcy, she does not excuse herself. She reflects, she reassesses, and—gradually—she changes as a result. Again, not in her essential character, but in the way she allows her prejudice to give way to understanding.

So I wonder: when we soften Darcy’s pride and overlook Elizabeth’s prejudice, are we improving the story… or taking something essential away?

Leave a comment

Part of this likely stems from how we treat Caroline Bingley (see last week’s post for a discussion of her). Because we tend to dislike her, we assume Darcy must as well, and recast his conduct accordingly. But that interpretation smooths over what the text actually shows us.

His behaviour at the assembly was, quite simply, rude. A gentleman was expected to make himself agreeable, to dance, to participate. Darcy does neither. Although he later claims difficulty in forming new acquaintances—and while he is clearly not as naturally sociable as Bingley or Colonel Fitzwilliam—that does not fully account for his conduct. He is not merely reserved; he is also, at this point, a social snob.

Austen makes this plain:

The verdict is swift and decisive: he sets himself apart, refuses to engage, and earns the room’s dislike accordingly. Whatever else we may wish to attribute to him—introversion, discomfort, even misplaced loyalty—Austen leaves little doubt that pride and social disdain play a significant role.

And yet, we have made a litany of excuses for him:

• he has just arrived at Netherfield and is unaware of the social obligations expected of him so soon,

• Caroline Bingley’s pursuit and overall proprietary attitude,

• a headache,

• a level of shyness or reserve beyond what Austen actually indicates,

• the gossip that surrounds him,

• and any number of other reasons that render his behaviour more understandable—if not entirely excusable.

But Pride and Prejudice makes it quite clear that Darcy knew exactly what he was doing. He looks Elizabeth in the eye and speaks coldly when he calls her “tolerable.” I have seen variations where he later frames it as a deliberate warning meant to keep her at a distance—and while that interpretation is interesting, it still acknowledges intent.

Fitzwilliam Darcy is, after all, a wealthy gentleman entering an unfamiliar society. He does not know the families present, and within minutes of his arrival, gossip is circulating—openly, and not at all quietly. It is not difficult to imagine that he might wish to maintain distance. Even so, caution does not require incivility—and Darcy crosses that line.

There is a part of me that understands Darcy’s actions, at least to a degree. I am an introvert myself, and I do not particularly enjoy making conversation with strangers. I will always prefer to be approached rather than to do the approaching, and I am often awkward in those situations. I am rarely certain what to say, and I can easily replay conversations long after they have ended, thinking of all the things I might have said instead. Whether that is personality, habit, or something else entirely, I recognise the discomfort.

So yes—I understand him. Not everyone is at ease in company, and Darcy is clearly one of those people.

Still, I have never deliberately insulted someone within their hearing. That is simply not done—partly because I am from the Southern United States, and partly because it is, quite simply, rude, and I was raised better than that. I might roll my eyes if someone says something foolish, and years of teaching have sharpened my sarcasm considerably, but to look at someone and call them “tolerable” to their face is something else entirely.

Again, this is one of those areas where we as authors tend to make excuses for him. In one story I read, he delivers the insult as a deliberate warning, choosing Elizabeth because she seems capable of handling it—unlike a younger girl who might have been truly hurt by his callous words. And Elizabeth does handle it well; she laughs at him, which may or may not have drawn his notice. Still, his words prejudice her against him to the point that she nearly hates him, and they set the stage for a great deal of pain for them both.

Regardless, what makes Pride and Prejudice so compelling—and why we return to it again and again—is this: Darcy makes his disastrous proposal, he and Elizabeth argue, and then he changes.

Yes, Elizabeth has her own growth to undergo, but we will set that aside for now. Today belongs to Darcy.

He hears what Elizabeth says to him, and he takes it to heart. He changes—not to win her favour, not to prove himself to her, but because her words affect him that deeply.

By the end, he admits as much:

“You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”

Swoon.

That is the heart of the story, I think. Not that Darcy was always misunderstood, or secretly perfect beneath the surface, but that he was flawed—and that he chose to become better. Again, not because he wanted something—he never expected to see Elizabeth Bennet again—but because he recognised, from her words, that he needed to change.

There is something deeply satisfying in that kind of love: not one that excuses, but one that challenges, refines, and ultimately transforms.

Perhaps, then, this is where we, as authors, ought to pause. If we excuse him too quickly, we risk losing the very thing that makes his story so powerful.

Darcy is not compelling because he was always misunderstood. He is compelling because he was wrong—and because he chose to make himself better.

When I first began reading JAFF, I remember a story—although I could not say which one or where I read it—in which, when he meets Elizabeth again, he tells her that he has changed, that he has become more aware of his conduct since their last conversation, and that others have noticed it as well. He had grown less rude, less dismissive of those beneath him, more open, and, in general, kinder.

So I wonder: when we soften that first impression, are we improving him… or taking something essential away?

Leave a comment

Caroline Bingley is perhaps the most obvious example. In many adaptations, she has become the burnt-orange-wearing mean girl, sharpened into something far more malicious than Austen ever quite intended. I cannot pretend innocence here; I have leaned into that portrayal myself more than once, and there is a particular satisfaction in allowing her a well-earned set-down.

And yet, in canon, she is something rather more ordinary—if no less frustrating. She is a social snob with an inflated sense of her own importance. Although she is wealthy—her £20,000 fortune is significant—she is still the daughter of a tradesman, not truly of the landed ton, and certainly not titled. In strict terms of rank, she sits in a somewhat ambiguous position: above many by wealth, yet below the established gentry, including the Bennets.

That contrast is part of what makes her so interesting. The Bennets may be ill-mannered, but they are undeniably gentry; even Mrs Bennet holds that status by marriage. Caroline, by contrast, must rely on performance—on elegance, connections, and careful social manoeuvring—to secure her place. That is likely one of the reasons she desires to have either herself or her brother marry into the Darcy family.

Her brother, Charles Bingley, represents that upward movement more cleanly. Austen does not explicitly confirm that he attended university (so that detail likely belongs to fanon), but he has both fortune and ambition. His leasing of Netherfield suggests a deliberate step toward entering the landed gentry. Caroline, in many ways, follows in his wake, attempting to solidify that transition for herself. Mrs Hurst has already achieved it, at least in part, by marrying a gentleman, even if is only shown as interested in drink and food.

Importantly, Austen does not present her as wholly disagreeable from the outset. Elizabeth’s opinion of her shifts at least once in the story—and those shifts tell us quite a bit:

“When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane.” (Chapter 7)

At first, Caroline performs exactly as she ought—attentive, sympathetic, even charming. But the performance does not hold:

“The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved… and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference towards Jane, when not immediately before them, restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.” (Chapter 8)

That small phrase—thought no more of the matter—does much of the work. Caroline is not a villain in any grand sense; she is inconsistent, self-interested, and deeply concerned with appearances. Her kindness extends only as far as it is useful or visible—very much the polished version of a mean girl rather than a true antagonist.

There are other moments that reinforce this. At Pemberley, her behaviour tips fully into cattiness after Elizabeth’s visit there, no doubt brought on by the attention that Darcy, her object, showed to Elizabeth Bennet:

“How very ill Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy… She is grown so brown and coarse!”

“I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her… there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable.” (Chapter 46)

The attack is personal, persistent, and designed to provoke Fitzwilliam Darcy—and yet, even here, it is not the work of a villain so much as someone insecure, competitive, and unkind when crossed. AKA, a mean girl.

And of course, we cannot forget her role (alongside Darcy) in persuading her brother to leave Netherfield. It is perhaps her most consequential action—but even that is rooted less in malice than in social calculation.

Which is, perhaps, why we so often sharpen her into something harsher. Austen gives us a mean girl with excellent manners; we turn her into a villain of the story.

So what do you think—has Caroline Bingley always been a villain, or is she simply a mean girl we have turned into one?

Leave a comment

I do not know who first created this graphic. I see Shmoop in the corner—which is a site labelled as “homework help” for students—but I am not certain whether they were the first to put together this sort of comparison. I also do not know when it was made, which makes me question how accurate these numbers would be if translated into today’s terms.

A quick search for “how wealthy was Mr Darcy” pulled up an estimate that placed his income somewhere between £350,000 and £5.5 million a year. That is… quite a range. Still, no matter where the true number falls, I think it is safe to say that Darcy would have been extraordinarily wealthy.

But we already knew that.

The more interesting question—or at least the one I have found myself considering lately—is this: how wealthy were the Bennets?

The graphic above presents them as doing reasonably well, and in many ways, they were. No one in the family “worked” in the way we would define it now. Their income came from the estate—land, rents, and what we might call generational wealth—rather than wages. Gentlemen did not earn money; they lived on it.

An income of £2,000 a year was respectable. It should have been more than enough to provide comfortably for the family, particularly when one considers that much of what they needed could be produced on the estate itself. Food could come from the home farm, wood from their own land, and livestock from their own holdings. They would not have needed to purchase nearly as much as we might assume.

And yet… it never seems to be enough.

We are never told exactly how long Mr Bennet had been in possession of Longbourn before the novel begins. For the sake of simplicity, I tend to think of the Bennet parents as Thomas and Fanny—it makes it easier to speak of them. Many variations imagine Mr Bennet as a man more inclined toward books than society, one who had little intention of marrying until circumstance forced his hand—perhaps the death of a father or elder brother placed the estate in his care sooner than expected.

From there, the interpretations vary. Sometimes his marriage to Fanny Gardiner is a matter of convenience or compromise. Other times, it is a brief and persuasive courtship, where she appears to share just enough of his opinions to secure the match—though not, perhaps, for very long after.

However the marriage came about, we know from Pride and Prejudice that the Bennets never truly planned for the future—either their own or their daughters’.

I spent a considerable amount of time looking into amounts, interest rates, and all of that when I first began considering Of No Great Consequence, a story I intend to write later this year, and one that features a quietly diligent Thomas Bennet.

If he had begun early—setting aside a portion of his income for his family and future children—he might very easily have accumulated a meaningful sum by the time the events of Pride and Prejudice begin. The key, more than anything, is time. Money set aside when Jane was an infant would have had over twenty years to grow; money set aside for Lydia, far less. And yet even modest consistency would have made a difference.

For example, if he had set aside as much as a quarter of his income in the early years—when there was only one child, then two, and the household was still comparatively inexpensive—and then gradually reduced that amount as more daughters were born and later required gowns, ribbons, and the many small expenses of being out in society, he could still have accumulated a very respectable fund.

Even allowing for that gradual decline, a pattern of stronger early saving followed by more moderate contributions later could quite reasonably produce between £10,000 and £15,000 by the time our story begins in 1811—particularly if those funds were invested and allowed to earn interest over time.

A portion of £1,000 would not make a young woman an heiress, but it would make her something more than a burden—and perhaps a little more appealing to a prospective suitor.

At £3,000, she begins to bring something of her own into a marriage—something that alters how she is viewed, and perhaps how she is treated. While such a sum does not approach Caroline Bingley’s £20,000 or Georgiana Darcy’s £30,000, it would have given each Bennet daughter something of her own and offered Mrs Bennet at least a measure of reassurance that they would not be left entirely destitute.

It would not have required extraordinary effort on Bennet’s part. Only that he begin—and that he continue to do so. That he resist the temptation to spend the entirety of his income or do something to restrict Mrs Bennet’s spending, particularly when the girls were young. They were not poor, but they lived as though saving were unnecessary.

And perhaps that is the point of the story, at least to some extent. That, and to show how much women were at risk in that society, since that seems to be a theme that runs through many of Jane Austen’s stories.

Mr Bennet, as written, is indolent where it matters most, and Mrs Bennet is incapable of moderation in anything. Between them, nothing is ever set aside. Mrs Bennet dreads the future when her husband died and leaves them without a home, but she also doesn’t do anything to encourage her husband.

Admittedly, it is easy to judge him with the benefit of hindsight. Whether he was unusually negligent, or merely typical of his class, is perhaps another question entirely.

That uncertainty is what led me to imagine a different sort of Mr Bennet—one who quietly set money aside for his daughters. I have kept some of his usual insouciance and allowed him his privacy; he does not speak of these savings to his wife or to his daughters. And yet, beneath that familiar exterior, he is a man who makes the deliberate choice to better the lives his family might expect, even after his passing.

It is a small change to imagine, at least in part. In what I have written, Mr Bennet possess a quieter sort of diligence, but he is diligent and caring. But it is enough to alter everything that follows.

Looking forward to writing this one in the coming months and sharing it with you.

Take, for example, the oft-quoted line about “excellent boiled potatoes.” It is memorable, amusing—and entirely absent from the original novel.

After enough exposure, certain “facts” begin to feel so familiar, so unquestionably correct, that we scarcely think to question them. And yet, upon closer examination, we discover that they did not come from Austen at all.

Somewhere along the way, we have built a shared understanding of the story—one that exists alongside the original text.

Canon = what Austen actually wrote
Fanon = widely accepted ideas created by readers and writers over time

Fanon is not wrong. It is not even necessarily inaccurate. But it is collective interpretation, not original text. As authors, viewers, and readers, there are certain ideas we hold with surprising conviction—and some of them did not originate with Jane Austen at all.

For example, the names of our characters. The names Thomas and Fanny Bennet do not come from the original, yet they are widely accepted as the names of the Bennet parents.

The same is true of Richard—a name which Jane Austen herself did not care for, but which is now almost universally accepted. I have written exactly one book in which Richard was not Richard, but rather Jonathan, and I cannot tell you how many times I had to go back and correct myself. (Search and replace is a wonderful thing.)

There are other details we have come to embrace. Elizabeth adores walking, but cannot ride. We do not actually know that; there may be other reasons she did not ride, but the text does not tell us what they are. She may have been just as competent on horseback as Jane, yet we so often make her fearful of horses.

It is interesting how similar patterns have emerged for all the Bennet sisters, although not always in the same way. Jane is often portrayed as skilled with plants and competent in the stillroom. Elizabeth is a great reader, but also frequently takes an active role in estate management. Mary is studious—this one has stronger textual grounding—and reads Fordyce to the exclusion of all else, playing the pianoforte with precision rather than feeling. Likewise, Kitty and Lydia are often characterised by fashion, though Kitty is sometimes given artistic talent. Lydia… is occasionally granted an eye for colour or even an unexpected aptitude for mathematics or chess, though her canonical talents lie elsewhere.

The idea that Darcy is socially inept is also, for the most part, a creation of fanon rather than canon. He is arrogant, yes, proud of his status and heritage, but the idea of a man who haunts the corners of the ballroom is a fanon creation. I can think you can make a case that he doesn’t easily socialize, but that is not necessarily due to reserve or shyness as some authors, myself included, like to portray him.

These are small details, perhaps—but they point to something larger.

When an idea appears often enough—across variations, adaptations, and discussions—it begins to feel like truth. Not because Austen wrote it, but because we have all agreed, more or less, to treat it as though she had.

That is why some lines we feel certain must be Austen… are not.

Consider how often we quote lines such as “You have bewitched me, body and soul,” or remember scenes that feel inseparable from the story—yet do not appear in Austen’s text at all.

Adaptations, particularly the 2005 film (Pride & Prejudice) and the 1995 miniseries (Pride and Prejudice), have shaped not only how we see these characters, but what we believe they said and did.

I’m not going to lie, this is one of my least favorites, and it’s not Austen. While I like this version well enough (although the 1995 BBC version can’t be beat), this scene irritates me to no end. I can’t imagine either party walking out quite like this and I don’t love the proposal scene here at all.

Beyond dialogue and character traits, our modern perspective also reshapes how we interpret the story itself.

There are things that we, as modern readers, struggle to accept—no matter how historically accurate they may be.

The Lydia–Wickham marriage is perhaps the clearest example. Lydia is only sixteen at the time of her marriage, while Wickham is likely somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. It is meant to be a resolution to a problem. Lydia, at sixteen, is out, and therefore considered marriageable. To Austen’s contemporary audience, this outcome restores order. To us, it feels deeply unsettling—and difficult to accept as resolution.

And so, we adjust the story to suit our modern sensibilities.

We soften the situation, alter the circumstances, or shift the consequences. We make Wickham less predatory, Lydia more aware, or the marriage less final. Sometimes we rewrite the outcome entirely—not because Austen was unclear, but because we are uncomfortable with what she wrote.

In doing so, we are not merely interpreting the text—we are reshaping it.

Jane Austen’s intention was, in large part, social commentary. Her work carries a satirical edge, quietly critiquing the very systems it portrays. The idea that marriage could serve as an end in itself, that security might be valued above affection—these are not simply accepted truths within the novel, but tensions Austen invites us to examine. She writes not only to reflect how things were, but to suggest that they need not remain so.

I am not suggesting that we do the same in our variations, but I can say that it is part of why I tend to write lower-angst stories, where Darcy and Elizabeth come together earlier and face the obstacles before them as a united pair.

It is also why I try, as often as I can, to write Elizabeth, Darcy, and the other characters as real people—flawed, certainly, but capable of growth and change.

Am I always successful in this? Probably not. But it is the intention.

There is, of course, a certain delight in taking the worst—or the best—of these characters and shaping them into something new, something that Austen herself might scarcely recognise. And perhaps that is part of the enduring appeal.

Still, one cannot help but wonder what she would think…

But that is part of the joy of it—returning to her story again and again, each time asking what is truly hers… and what we have added along the way.

What is something you were certain was in Pride and Prejudice—only to discover it was not? And how easy is it, now, to separate canon from fanon?

Leave a comment

As authors, it can be difficult not to turn her into a shrieking caricature of herself. We love to make Elizabeth the least favorite daughter and Mrs. Bennet the ultimate avaricious, matchmaking mama—one who lacks both propriety and proper behavior. Film adaptations of Pride and Prejudice have only amplified these traits, and it is often through that lens that we remember her. Her constant references to her nerves, the fluttering anxiety, the rising pitch of her voice—these are the impressions most firmly embedded in our minds.

I will admit, I sometimes find it easier to amplify those traits. In canon, however, she is not quite so shrill, although we may be influenced by her most obvious behaviors—her silliness, her short-sightedness, and her fixation on marrying off her daughters.

What Drives Her

Yet on another level, she is a concerned mother who understands that marriage is the only reliable means of securing her daughters’ futures once their father dies. We do not know how Mr. and Mrs. Bennet came to be married, but it seems unlikely that theirs was a true love match—or, if it once was, that affection has long since faded. Mrs. Bennet married above her station, the daughter of a solicitor who became the wife of a landed gentleman, yet she was never fully taught the expectations of polite society.

We tend to focus on how silly she seems in attempting to matchmake her daughters, but in reality, it was a necessity for them. I wonder how much her anxiety over these marriages is due to her husband’s treatment of her; he is dismissive, mocking, sardonic.

A Marriage in Miniature

Take, for example, their first conversation about Bingley (abridged):

Mrs. Bennet: “A single man of large fortune… what a fine thing for our girls!”

Mr. Bennet: “How so? how can it affect them?”

Mrs. Bennet: “You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”

Mr. Bennet: “Is that his design in settling here?”

Mrs. Bennet: “Design? Nonsense… it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them.”

Mrs. Bennet: “You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.”

Mr. Bennet: “I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends.”

Mrs. Bennet is asking her husband to do what is expected of a gentleman when newcomers arrive in a community, but he takes this opportunity to tease her. Her last statement—You take delight in vexing me—may very well be a good summary of their marriage.

His willful detachment is evident here—and it is difficult not to see how such constant dismissal might fuel her anxiety in return.

Austen’s Lens—and Ours

Austen tells us this directly, though not without bias:

It is passages like this that authors often draw on when writing Mrs. Bennet. She is not particularly bright, perhaps rather pretty (like Jane), and so we often conclude that Mr. Bennet married her for her appearance alone. From there, some interpretations go further, recasting her as not only unintelligent, but avaricious enough to have somehow trapped or forced the match.

What We Lose When We Flatten Her

What we lose in doing so is not merely nuance, but tension. If Mrs. Bennet is only foolish, then her urgency becomes simply irritating rather than understandable, and her efforts are easy to dismiss. But if we allow that she sees the stakes clearly—even if she pursues them clumsily—then her actions take on a different weight. She is no longer merely an obstacle to Elizabeth’s happiness, but a reflection of the very real limitations placed upon women of her time. In flattening her, we remove not only her motivation, but the pressure that drives the entire narrative forward.

Variations That Get It Right

There are, however, some variations that handle this balance well. Sue Barr’s Fitzwilliam Darcy Undone reveals Mrs. Bennet’s foolishness to be a deliberate mask. In All Hallow’s Eve by Wendi Sotis, both Mrs. Bennet and her daughters adopt exaggerated roles to conceal deeper truths. Even in stories where she appears only briefly—or not at all, as in An Unexpected Inheritance by Melanie Rachel—her absence highlights the role she would otherwise play in shaping the family’s circumstances. In that story, she is remembered as both a good mother and a capable general’s wife, and her daughters recall her with affection.

In Dare to Refuse Such a Man by Mary Smythe, Mrs. Bennet is much closer to her canon portrayal, yet Elizabeth and Darcy recognize how to work with her rather than against her, using her known inclinations to their advantage in opposition to Mr. Bennet. Other variations take a softer approach, allowing characters such as Elizabeth or Darcy (and occasionally even Lady Matlock) to acknowledge her concerns as legitimate and respond with patience and kindness—an approach that often proves far more effective.

In these cases, the shift is not in removing Mrs. Bennet’s flaws, but in allowing them to exist alongside a clear purpose. There are also versions in which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet grow together, learning to temper one another’s weaknesses and, in doing so, create—or rediscover—a genuinely affectionate marriage. At times, they have simply lost their way, and it is only by witnessing Elizabeth and Darcy come together—and struggle together—that they are prompted to find their way back to one another.

Writing What We Know

That said, there is still a certain satisfaction in, at times, writing Mrs. Bennet as a truly awful character. In one of my own works, I drew on a particularly narcissistic person in my life, and the more I was required to be around that individual, the more exaggerated Mrs. Bennet became. As writers, we are often encouraged to write what we know, and in this case, shaping her in this way became a means of working through stress in my daily life.

Final Thought

And perhaps that is the point: in writing her, we are not only shaping a character, but working through the tensions—both fictional and real—that she represents.

Leave a comment

I think it is fairly obvious from most of my writing that I fall rather firmly into the latter category. Yes, I am likely judging him by modern sensibilities, but I have difficulty thinking well of anyone who openly mocks his own family.

Do I, at times, call my children idiots—or, as the need arises, employ a Gibbs-slap to knock some sense into them?

Of course. But it is done in love, and only when absolutely necessary (and only with the boy who is, at this point, bigger than I am).

Regardless, when we view Mr Bennet through just about any lens, what do we think about him? He is generally considered indolent, not making the effort to improve the estate in a way that might have allowed him to increase his income and set some aside for his wife and daughters upon his death.

Since no couple is guaranteed a son, would it not have been wise to set some money aside each month until an heir was born? Instead, Bennet and his wife spent every penny each year; I dare say they lived, in essence, from one quarter to the next. I wonder if Mrs Bennet had to restrict her spending toward the end of each quarter when the funds were nearly exhausted.

I will not say that the movie adaptations have not lessened some of our frustrations with this gentleman of leisure. He is still indolent and uninvolved, but he does seem to be a bit more likeable.

It is sometimes difficult to separate what we know from fanon and what is actually in Pride and Prejudice (which is why I have it bookmarked on my computer so that I can search for things as I think about them).

For example, this is stated in Chapter 50:

I suppose we can give him some credit for keeping his wife from exceeding their income, but we see his inaction just a few lines later:

for his chief wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible.

Granted, he is speaking of the situation with Wickham and Lydia and is realising that the amount promised would have very little impact on his own pocketbook. He continues to mock and tease, and while he does take a firm line when he states that Lydia will not be welcomed at home, even then he is not taking the whole matter into consideration, and Jane and Elizabeth must talk sense into him.

This is only one small instance of his overall attitude and slothful behaviour, but there are many more we could pull from the story.

Likewise, this is one of the many areas where writers can vastly differ in their stories. I find it interesting how widely authors diverge on this point.

One of my favourite portrayals of a truly bad Mr Bennet is Rain and Retribution by L.L. Diamond. She often writes the patriarch as less than admirable, but in this one, he’s almost cruel. Not as cruel as he could be, but in attempting to compel Elizabeth to marry Mr Collins, he ultimately drives her to run away. He has good intentions, in a way, but they are rooted in a desire to give Longbourn to Elizabeth so that she may continue to manage it for him.

This is not the only instance in which L.L. Diamond portrays a Mr Bennet who is not merely negligent, but borders on abusive.

She is certainly not the only one. J. Dawn King has several as well, most notably A Father’s Sins, a personal favorite of mine (which can be listened to for free on YouTube). While both Mr Bennet and the late Mr Darcy create problems for their respective children, Mr Bennet is particularly cruel in this one. He doesn’t have a large role in A Baby for Mr Darcy, but he’s not a good father there either.

Some authors have attempted to redeem Mr Bennet. Sydney Salier’s Mr Bennet Leaves His Study is one such example. In many of Linda Wells’ works, he begins poorly but gradually improves—most notably in Chance Encounters. That said, he is not particularly admirable in Imperative, although the Memory series offers a far more satisfying redemption where we actually see him change.

Of course, many stories fall somewhere between these two extremes. I have attempted to write versions in which he is improved, but even when I begin with that intention, he sometimes becomes worse than I had planned.

I think he turned out fairly well in Sport for Our Neighbours, but many of my stories feature a Mr Bennet who ranges from indifferent to outright cruel.

Perhaps that is why we keep returning to him—not because we have reached a conclusion, but because we have not. I, for one, am not certain what to do with Mr Bennet, as I do not think very well of him, despite how he might be characterised by others.

I think he ought to have done more for his daughters and his family. As a gentleman, he could have done more; he ought to have saved for his wife and children after his death. He ought to have taught his family how to behave in society, and perhaps even laid restrictions on them when he saw them acting inappropriately.

And yet, he did not.

But what I want to know is this: what do you think?

Perhaps that is why he continues to invite such varied interpretations—and why I find myself returning to him more often than I expect.

And perhaps that is where the most interesting thoughts begin.

Leave a comment

I did not realise until this morning that last Friday (March 27) was National Scribble Day.

It was also International Whiskey Day—which, I have learned, is also known as “the water of life,” or uisce na beatha in Gaelic.

I find it interesting that those two holidays fall together, and I suppose that, given enough whiskey, one could produce some rather interesting scribbles, even if one is not an artist.

While I am not an artist in the traditional sense, there was a time when I enjoyed painting and drawing. I used to watch Bob Ross on occasion and attempt my own versions of his “happy little trees.” None of that work still exists—which is, in all likelihood, for the best—but I suppose I have simply turned to a different sort of scribbling in recent years.

And lately, those scribbles have come from what I have been reading.

After reading any number of Pride and Prejudice variations, I tried my hand at writing my own. Fortunately, I have even managed to find people to read them, and I still cannot believe how much y’all actually like to read what I’ve written.

Nonetheless, I am also a great reader. 🤣 Now I want to share with y’all what I read and find interesting.

I have been fortunate to have found several friends within the JAFF community and have been privileged to read their works.

Caroline Cartier releases her new book Resilience tomorrow, and I found myself particularly struck by her portrayal of Mr Bennet. As I have often done in my own writing, she leans into a more flawed version of his character, though here he is not overtly cruel so much as quietly indifferent—and that indifference is taken further than I expected. Jane’s character follows a similar path, and I think you may be surprised by what unfolds when Mr Bennet comes into a small inheritance.

Cathleen Earle is another newer author whose work I have enjoyed, particularly as I have had the opportunity to beta read several of her stories. What I have found most interesting about her current Pride and Other Sins series is the decision to bring Elizabeth and Mr Darcy together earlier in London and then allow the story to unfold from that point. With ODC established early, the focus shifts to how they navigate everything that follows, and I have enjoyed watching that develop across the series. There are six books planned in total—one for each of the remaining sins—and she has published the first four so far. I find myself increasingly curious to see how she will bring the final two together, and I am waiting rather impatiently for their release.

The more I read, the more I find that the thoughts which stay with me rarely arrive fully formed, much like the what ifs I find myself writing and sharing. Each one begins as something small—a line, a moment, a question—and then returns, again and again, until they begin to take shape. Perhaps that is all this is meant to be: a place for those beginnings. A place to set them down before they are finished, to look at them more closely, and to see what they might become. After all, every thought must begin somewhere, and more often than not, it begins as a scribble.

Thanks for reading my random thoughts, and let me know what you think—or if you have thoughts of your own to share in the comments.

Leave a comment

Want to support this publication, click here to buy me a coffee.

Subscribe now