a bookworm at her best

I love books.

Every single one of the smelly, musty, antique little blips in time. There is something so refreshing about putting down the blackberry and Wii remote and flipping the traveled pages of a good Austen piece.

I met a little girl today that was checking out 12 books and she looked only about 7yrs old. She was laughing and talking about how much she loved school and how her and her mom read every night after dinner. Every night, she stressed. I had such an immediate power popping flashback to my own trips to the library as a kid. Growing up down the street from the literally, two room town library, I would ride my bike barefoot down through town and take the first flying left over the railroad tracks. Susie, the librarian and only worker for the entire town of Indian Trail's library system, would meet me at the door with a grin and a handful of new books.

There was an old yellow beanbag chair in the back room where all the kid's books were and I would sit there for hours and hours reading before scooping up a new pile of fresh, untapped words and peddling home.

As I got older, there was a lot about my childhood that I tried to forget and a lot that I suceeded in doing so but that small yellow library and that small little librarian are such stoic flashlights in my fuzzy, broken memory. Today, the yellow building has been converted to the police station, the new library is down the street and is almost 3x the size, and Susie....well, I work with her now.


Guess you can't say you never make an impact on anyone.

more than one jane in common

i'm currently moving full force into the final, southern down-home phase of my stylistic experimentation. I tried the uptown party scene; it smelled funny and hurt my feet. So I threw my heels in the closet and tried the quiet, loner life; I found myself relating to the cast of Jersey Shore and running out of fingernail polish. I hung my head in shame and moved quickly into the musical genius niche; i love playing guitar, i don't love my fingers bleeding.

So here I am; cowboy boots and broken in jeans wearing, animal rights activist, and avid outdoorswoman.

It fits.

hottie mcbody

the most sure fire way to make me roll my eyes and sigh is to start your story off with the phrase, "ok so there's this guy..."

i will huff and your droning wah-wah voice will begin numbing my ears while i mindwander to much more stimulating topics. like drying paint.


So please spare me the energy of faking my attention and don't tell me, especially if you don't want my opinion. Now, if you want me to just smile, nod, and say "YES! I think you SHOULD take him back"....then just tell me.....and then cue me when said line should be inserted in our conversation. Because frankly, I'm 23 going on 45 and I'm so beyond any fake enthusiasm about a naive girl falling for a douchejacket a**hole. The story's been done, pick something more original.


Now if someone came to me and said "Ok so there's this lesbian..." you can be sure to have my undivided attention. Just please, girls, grow some ovaries, get all dolled up, and act like fucking ladies. Guys play girls who let themselves be played and this storyline is totally played out. Just like your self-respect.

pinocchio's freudian adventure

sometimes I doubt if I see my life in the same way as others around me do, a skewed version perhaps, as if reality is only the carnival mirror replica of my own ideas. See, I think of my life as a cage...not literally of course but emotionally, as if everything I touch has these tiny, minute silver strings threaded upward that disappear into the air above...so that every move I make, every step or slight brush of the hand sprout these strings and that at the end of the day, I'm so tangled up that I feel trapped in them, and what once were weightless, silver wisps of memory are now chains, thick and bulbous, choking me and leaving me to fall to my knees.

I know the idea is a bit far reaching for some but every moment makes a mark on the unconcious, albeit small in the ordinary avenues of the day, but it's there, that string, on every doorknob or car key or second glance...it's all there, and there's that moment right before when you know that what you do next will affect you in some way so that in 1 hour or 10 years, you will think of it or make a decision subconciously based upon it.

See, I don't believe in deja vu...I believe in those moments, you're simply remembering a memory you haven't had yet. You're remembering your strings.

Lunch with Wentworth

Tonight's movie was the 2007 adaptation of 'Persuasion' and sadly to say, it came on the heels of a breakup from my year-long boyfriend whom I love dearly.

Watching Anne's helpless scramble for the forgiveness and love of Captain Wentworth, it dawned on me, while unrealistic to hope for such a man, how utterly normal their love story is. Albeit, not every man will set aside his pride and respond to his bittersweet unwilling devotion with a letter saying simply, 'you pierce my soul' but it was as if Austen was commenting on the fairy tale in every love story. Like somehow, every ordinary romance contained some facet of the unbelievable.


If a man, rather - the right man, should ever say that to me however, I think I should run screaming to the chapel straight away. One sentence becomes the climax of an entire novel where most modern pictures require some elaborate, over-the-top, blood and gore fight sequence. Austen though can do it all, every flying uppercut, every sword thrust...in one sentence.


And it seems that while today was not the best of many I've had, it kept me in perspective as to what romance should be. What love could be. It may be plain, soft spoken, and well mannered but it's fires still burn just as bright.

up 'n Adam.

As the inaugural post of my self-proclaimed 'favorite blog' ever - I want to break the cyber ice by explaining the title and why I choose to write as I do.

craving{Jane} is an homage to my personal obsession, the object of my literary affection - Jane Austen.

Most people ask if she's a tv host and as if a hole has been punched through my chest, I can only sigh and say "No, she's an author" "Oh, she writes romance novels?"

This is the point in my day when I begin to wonder if I like people at all.


I first read Austen when I was 15 and my mother, an avid Janeite herself, introduced me to the wonderful, sarcastic world of Pride and Prejudice. I fell slightly vegetative during the three hour span of the original BBC version and when the credits rolled, I woke from my trance to see the world as a much prettier place knowing that people like Mr. Darcy and Lizzie existed in it. Ever since then, my bookshelves have been filled with every canonical novel, short, biography, and research journal on/around/or pertaining to the world of Austen.

She is chaotic and lovely in her stories of fairy tales gone astray. She writes about a time when men stood as a lady entered the room and when ladies acted as just that.

I fell hard for her and her world and ever since, she has captivated my life like a beautiful quotation in the middle of an ugly story.

My blog won't always be about her, I couldn't possibly believe that people would want to read about her as often as I do, but it will always be inspired by her.


As a man tells his stories, a woman tells her secrets.

Here are mine.