My name is Adele and I’m addicted to heroines. No, that isn’t a typo, I’ve had a long love affair with literary heroines; they’ve basically taught me everything I know from affairs of the heart, to defying expectations and to, no matter what, remaining true to yourself (even if this occasionally bites you in the ass!).

I’ve been an avid reader since I was a tot, but my heroine addiction didn’t start until years later… I can pinpoint the exact beginning of my literary love affair to 1995, when my mother let me stay up past my bedtime on a Sunday night to watch, yep, you guessed it, Pride and Prejudice. It turned out that this six-part TV series would go on to define not only Colin Firth’s life and career, but also my own.

From the opening credits I was completely hooked. And it wasn’t just dreamy Colin Firth and his sopping wet shirt, I was enamoured with Elizabeth Bennett!

To little nine-year-old me, she was and remains awe-inspiring; strong, eloquent, clever and witty. I desperately wanted to be her, so much so that when I got the double VCR box set for Christmas, which I still keep for sentimental value even though I no longer own a VCR,  I would watch it every day. In school, I was the weird girl who would ask her friends to take turns around the playground, a la Caroline Bingley, and we’d link arms and  mosey around the tarmacked playground.

The pair who started it all

My name is Adele and I’m addicted to heroines. No, that isn’t a typo, I’ve had a long love affair with literary heroines; they’ve basically taught me everything I know from affairs of the heart, to defying expectations and to, no matter what, remaining true to yourself (even if this occasionally bites you in the ass!).

I’ve been an avid reader since I was a tot, but my heroine addiction didn’t start until years later… I can pinpoint the exact beginning of my literary love affair to 1995, when my mother let me stay up past my bedtime on a Sunday night to watch, yep, you guessed it, Pride and Prejudice. It turned out that this six-part TV series would go on to define not only Colin Firth’s life and career, but also my own.

From the opening credits I was completely hooked. And it wasn’t just dreamy Colin Firth and his sopping wet shirt, I was enamoured with Elizabeth Bennett!

To little nine-year-old me, she was and remains awe-inspiring; strong, eloquent, clever and witty. I desperately wanted to be her, so much so that when I got the double VCR box set for Christmas, which I still keep for sentimental value even though I no longer own a VCR,  I would watch it every day. In school, I was the weird girl who would ask her friends to take turns around the playground, a la Caroline Bingley, and we’d link arms and  mosey around the tarmacked playground.

The pair who started it all

I’d insist on going to my local park to try and get my boots as muddy as Lizzie’s (much to my mother’s dismay), I’d sling on one of my mothers long boho maxis from the 70s, the only thing I could lay my hands on that remotely resembled a regency era dress, and attempt La Boulangere. It got so bad that my mum had to intervene and told me I was only allowed to watch it once a week. I’ve only recently forgiven her.

My cold turkey session led me to the greatest addiction of my life, Jane Austen and her merry band of female heroines. Obviously I started with Pride and Prejudice, which was even better than I’d imagined! I quickly devoured Jane’s remaining five novels, and became obsessed with Marianne and Elinor, Anne, Emma, not so much Fanny, and Catherine – take that mother!

My collection of Pride and Prejudice editions

But of course, I didn’t just stop at Jane Austen. I had always been an avid reader, life as an only child ensures this is the go-to pastime. But Jane, via Lizzie Bennet et al had ignited in me a love of the literary heroine. Soon I was admiring Cathy Earnshaw, Jane Eyre, Margaret Hale, Dorothea Brooke; basically anyone with a corset and a conscience.

Eventually my love of literature led me to university, where I read English Literature, studied my masters and landed a job as a journalist.

However, 2014 was a year of incredibly high highs and the lowest of all lows, to quote Charles Dickens, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” And as Big Ben struck twelve signalling the end of one year and the beginning of the other I decided to sit and take stock, really question what I wanted out of my life. I’ve always perceived myself to be the heroine of my own story, but my life had deviated from the narrative. I’d lost sight of myself and my life goals, I didn’t even know if there was any point in having them anymore… I mean we can’t all be heroines, some of us have to be the Charlotte Lucas’ of the world. So was I destined to be Charlotte, but trying to live the life of Lizzie?

I decided to revisit and the women who had, unbeknownst to them, underpinned my values and beliefs about the world in which I lived. I wanted to find out if I had been misled, if I had purposely ignored the advice that they had offered, been sold a litany of lies or whether I just needed a little reminding of my own inner heroine.

Obviously, getting in touch with my inner heroine was going to lead me onto my adoration of my literary heroes. Is it a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of a heroine addiction is in want of an unattainable hero, no?

At the end of last year, after a tumultuousrelationship, I found myself officially single, accused of having such insurmountably high expectations of a man that it would be impossible for a mere mortal to ever have a hope of meeting them. (‘Life’s not a romcom Adele’. Yep, that stung a bit.)

I’m a ruthless realist in most aspects of my life, (and a feminist I should add), but in love and romance I am the ultimate idealist, an optimist that will always see the good and actively ignore the red flags, who craves a love so real, consuming and steadfast that you’d think I’d come straight out of a Bronte novel. Cheers Emily! But like Marianne, who said, “The more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love”, I’m left wondering if perhaps my great expectations of love are as unrealistic for a modern 21st century girl as my quest to be a heroine.

I’ve ended up dating guys who I thought were potential Darcy’s, but who in fact weren’t proud or prejudiced, but merely pricks! I’ve learnt the hard way that sometimes not every ex-boyfriend is the same as Captain Wentworth, who wanders back into life when the time is right. There was a reason that ship sailed and you really shouldn’t let it drop anchor again.

A lot of my female friends are single and the common denominator is that we’re all obsessed with literary fiction, especially the classics. Wine fuelled conversations always revert back to Darcy, Heathcliffe, Brandon and Thornton.

Heroines overcome massive life fails which in itself is pretty fantastic, but there is always a dishy bloke in breeches standing by with banter, a big country pile and, eventually enagement bling and a baby. I’ve always, always admired the integrity and honour of literary heroes but in today’s world, I’ve become so disillusioned with dating, romance and love, I stared wondering if maybe Jane Austen and gang had fed me a feast of ridiculous expectations?

I know chivalry is dead, I’ve had to stand on the tube all the way from Canada Water to Wembley Park enough to experience that but are the underpinning principles of love really all that different? When you truly love someone you do anything and everything you can to make them happy and be with them, no? Has modern dating, the likes of Tinder, OKCupid and Match.com combined with today’s disposable lifestyle had such an effect our psychology that we don’t recognise love when we have it? Has it meant that we’re less likely to go the extra mile for someone we have if another willing date awaits, just a click away.

Has it always been this way or am I just being a pessimistic romantic? Have the life and love successes of my literary heroine’s given me false hope?

‘Well Mr Darcy, where are you?’

The truth is I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore, and so, I’ve decided to begin a little experiment, to go back, reread and rediscover Lizzie Bennet, Cathy Earnshaw and Margaret Hale: analyse my romantic history with heroines, to see if maybe I’ve only picked out the good bits and overlooked (or intentionally ignored) the advice that’s been offered up by the astute authors.

Naturally, I’ll begin my quest with my primary enabler, Jane Austen. I was going to begin with my favourite and work my way through (Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Northanger Abbey and the dreaded Mansfield Park), but on reflection I’ve decided to read them in the order in which Jane wrote them, seeing where and how her experiences influenced her writing and ideas on the notion of love and romance and whether a change is evident in her writing. And so, the order will be… Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, and Persuasion (I’m even going to try read Lady Watson, Susan and Sandition).

In times of happiness and sadness, Jane and her wonderful creations are never too far away. Whether it’s spending a Sunday watching Pride and Prejudice with tea and cake or sitting on the green at the Crescent in Bath drinking Prosecco from plastic glasses with my friends, Jane Austen has been and will always remain the literary sister who comforted me as I grew up and helped me to handle life’s blows, so it’s no surprise that I turn to her again during this transitional period of my life.

In order to get their happy endings, all heroines experience a reckoning of some sort. And this is going to be mine. So, armed with my library of classics, a bottle of gin and a supply of sweet treats, my quest begins…