Dear Jane Austen…

Sooooooo…yeah. What’s up? Still dead? I figured so much. I’m doing well, thanks for asking. I don’t really know if you know what’s going on down here, but everybody just loves, loves, loves you. Did you know we read your books for literature classes in universities worldwide? Yes. They stuff a whole mess of crazy college kids in a smelly room and say, “Hey, read this whole book by right now.” And the kids are all like, “What? Let me light my doobie first.” Don’t worry about what a doobie is—the point is you are ruining lives on campuses all over this country.

Now that may be a little harsh, but, then again, I’m a little bitter. I don’t blame you really. You were just writing the great love stories that weaseled their way into 21^st century culture. Must I hole myself up and worry about who the mysterious Frank Churchill is really in love with? I accidentally called my boss Mr. Darcy, and it was really awkward. I think in British accents now. I can’t turn it off.

So all I ask is that you come back as some sort of ghost, creepy old woman, or elusive young girl (your choice), and convince the world that you really aren’t the bee’s knees. We just need to Google some stuff for class instead of writing a twenty-page research paper due the Monday after spring break. And if you want to grant me three wishes or help me kill Lord Voldemort, go ahead. I don’t know if you’re a magic ghost. I’ll let you work it out.

Also melt all the snow.

Also my friend Emily says hi.

Sincerely,

Emilee Weier

P.S. I heard Charlotte and Emily Bronte didn’t like you very much. Suck on that!