157 years ago today, Charlotte Brontë died in an agony of nausea thought to be caused by hyperemesis gravidarum, or severe morning sickness. During the course of her short life (she died at 39), she was a teacher, governess, and author. She was a not-so-patient daughter, a discontented lover, and
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“Marilla, isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” Anne Shirley, Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery It’s that time of the year. The time when your impossibly put-together friends announce that they are going to accomplish a Huge
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Little Laura Jernegan, a girl who traveled the world on a whale ship during the 1860s, made quite the splash on the Internet yesterday (thanks, Wendy McClure, for passing on the link). Her journal, written when she was six years old, records her thoughts on various animals, the smells of
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Sometimes it’s hard to remember what a luxury it is to write a book (or, even better, to have written one). After all, the women who came before me were full-time moms, pioneers, dutiful daughters and poor ones, women with things to do. Still others had to fight to prove
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For reasons that will become apparent sooner rather than later, I’ve been thinking about literary places. Not just real places like the Ingalls Homestead or the moors of England, but the places in which we discover the books that mean so much to us. For example, I could never stand
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