i thought i was smart until i met emily brontë | lessons from the classics

Three measly pages into Wuthering Heights and my long-held belief that I was a “strong reader” began to unravel.

One of my more realistic goals this year was to read one literary classic a month, wedged between my endless TBR pile of mostly fantasy romance. As an aspiring author writing her first novel, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to learn from the greats.

High school forced a few onto me, but the only one I could slightly remember was To Kill a Mockingbird. Everything else dissolved into the void where my teachers’ names also live.

So when I saw there was a new Wuthering Heights movie starring the delicious Jacob Elordi (sue me) and Margot Robbie coming out, I decided that was my sign. What a perfect place to start. I simply had to finish it before I could see the film.

Book before movie. Always.

So, after finishing my first fantasy for the year, Brimstone FYI, I dove headfirst into Wuthering Heights. My only understanding of it relied heavily upon the lyrics to Kate Bush’s song. Which, if you're not familiar, she hadn't actually read the book before writing it.

In other words, I didn’t have a clue what I was in for.

Which turns out—despite being written in English—is essentially in another language. It was published in 1847, so of course I knew the words would be incredibly different to what I read now. But the sheer difficulty of understanding the first few pages (okay more like the first few chapters) had me genuinely reconsidering my literacy skills.

I’ve devoured 700-page fantasy bricks in days. Brontë had me rereading a single paragraph like I was trying to decrypt an ancient spell. Especially in Joseph's parts.

It forced me to slow down. To really read every word carefully to get an inkling of what Brontë was trying to convey. And even then, I wasn't always sure I understood. At some point I gave up trying to control it and decided to trust my brain to assemble meaning on its own. (Even if the characters all share the same fucking names.)

And yet—I couldn't put it down.

In the end, what rattled me the most wasn't the language. It was the fearlessness. Brontë doesn't explain herself. She doesn't soften the characters to make them likeable. She doesn't seem concerned with whether the reader will approve. And as someone writing her first novel, it gave me the reality check I needed: to spend less time worrying about being understood, and instead just write in the way that's most true to you.

I was sucked in by Catherine and Heathcliff and their tumultuous relationship. And all that happened after. It has the angst and the friends-to-enemies to not-quite-lovers feel instilled in it, but on a much more devastating level. It's stripped of anything soft or romantic. Nobody is healthy. Everyone needs therapy.

Do not go into it expecting a love story.

I don't want to say too much, because I'm not about spoilers. Unless you beg for them.

But I will tell you a few things I learnt for my journey as a writer.

The Lessons

1. slow the fuck down

2. say what you mean without caring what people think,

3. and trust your readers to make their way through your words, and to the heart of your story. Writing is subjective and will always hold different meanings for different people.

Anyway, here's my favourite quote from the book.

Adding it to my ever-growing list of Things I Wish I Wrote.