Anne, Who?

Countless years on the shelf, passed over in preference for my sisters, Charlotte and Emily. It is dim here, and I haven’t been able to stretch, move or breathe deeply for such a long, lonely time. How long, I am not certain; I have lost all sense of time. The briefest of touch from a grimy feather duster is all I can recall. I am left with my own thoughts, jumbled with those placed inside me by my creator. I thought the latest century would have brought fans of the more popular realistic fiction devoured by this generation. Are they not familiar with my style? Do they not know that I am different? Do they not favor sharp and ironic today? Finally, I am chosen for my famous surname, I have found a fan in the most unlikely of places. I enjoy the desperate way he clutches on to me, rubbing my jacket as if I were the only Bronte sister in existence. I can hear him whisper, “How often has this been checked out?”  Why is that important? We’ve found each other now…

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