She wrote with the elegance of angels, ink emboldened with the sharpness of truth edged in wit. One can only measure their own merits of wordsmithing to discern if they are her equal or even close to it. Her equal might be found today among throngs of books lined with wasted scribbles, absorbing minds which have never tasted the delight of intrigue and romance without the explicit, harsh visual presentation of naked love. But every now and then, beneath a collection of unsorted creations, lies a verse, manuscript, or maybe just a few lines which speak volumes; an undiscovered masterpiece that could become a classic.I often wonder how many worthy authors are tossed aside and ignored just as she was at onetime. At least we live in an age which allows us to instantly publish our creations by way of theinternet, something that hopefully offers a small measure of satisfaction. But there are those who have an old soul and intimately identify with her; she that wrote of pride and love, of the possibility of disposing oneself to a better station, and that somewhere there is always a Darcy to hold hands with and a Pemberly for him to offer as a home.How many pick up the pen and write as she did, expressive only in that manner by which she embossed upon parchment so many eloquent lines? It makes one consider that we may have all been in heaven with her before we came here. Perhaps we were all in the same writing class. She seems such a kindred spirit to us, I think that must have been the case! I can imagine it at least, and it seems to fit well. At any rate, it does satisfy my imagination fitfully. Here is how I reason such a conclusion about mysteries which cannot fully be explained. After all, does it not fall to us who have brains to imagine everything, to assemble the most grand explanation in any situation? I would say that it would behoove us to make such proper and distinguishable attempts in employing our faculties, especially those of our gender who are most ingenious when imagining anything.In heaven we were, all of us, writing about angelic heather which crested celestial moors. Shehad a quiet nature with a detectable wit if one could win her friendship, and ever after the prizewas worth the effort for she bore a jolly soul and loved nothing better than to write about happy,beautiful things as there was no residue of sadness in that place. So there we all were,congregated daily in the most beautiful garden, exchanging the best stories ever constructed,when it came time for her and others to leave. We knew that day would come for all of us, butshe left before I did. I watched her go. She went to a time that would not appreciate the merits ofany woman who attempted to use their talents beyond anything besides child-rearing anddomesticity, but true to her nature she was bold and kept writing regardless, for it was the giftshe came with. So great were her efforts to make sure her words were expressed that shespent her life writing about the follies and value of true love, never really finding and holding onto it herself.I glimpsed her from beyond as she graced a more innocent age while I waited for my turn. She had been gone for some time when my turn to come finally arrived. Now Iam here and the innocence is lost. Women have power but stability is out of balance, awoman’s place is valued but true values are hard to find, the world demands the very best ofeverything, yet they had it before but it faded for lack of appreciation. What used to be isn’tanymore and I came at a time that no matter how well you express a story it is not saleableunless it is explicit. I must confess, I feel quite lost in many ways. But all is not lost for as long asthere is breath there is the hope of change.I think back upon the memory of her; the wit, the beauty, and yes, even the sadness that came from many of her words, and I can never let go of the measure of goodness that was in her craft. So what does it matter that I live in a modern world of literature that is just as restrictive in many ways as it was in her day, only for different reasons? The true meaning of authorship is to write well and in a manner that leaves the master of the pen free of any doubts or regrets. Somewhere in the interim that exists between birth and death, a level of maturity emerged, reminding me that what once was never completely dies, it just lies in a state of repose waiting for someone to wake it up and express it in words. She taught me how to do that.