Love is not the Point

Am I the only woman out there tired of supposed "heroine" stories that end up devolving into love stories?

I recently watched the 2011 film remake of Jane Eyre starring Mia Wasikowska.  I read the book for the first time at age 14 and absolutely devoured it. I loved Jane, the unlikely heroine. She was plain-looking and poor but smart, brave and self-possessed. Despite her miserable childhood, she learned early on how to swallow self-pity and move through the world without anger or regret. Throughout the novel, she seeks, through trial and misfortune, to live a full life true to herself. And all of this in early 19th century England (the book is considered proto-feminist and, for many reasons, very ahead of it's time).

So why, when watching the film yesterday, didn't I feel any of the admiration I felt for Jane as a tween?

The short answer is: Jane hasn't changed much, but I have.  At 24, I am now a fully-formed 21st century adult with some experience  under my belt. And I can't forgive Jane for returning to Mr. Rochester at age--what, 22?--to live out her days at his side, tending to him and looking after his household. Not when she had the opportunity to go travel the world and explore the horizon, a longtime dream of hers, with St. John. Her reason? Her heart was with another.

It's not that I look down on Jane or her creator, Charlotte Brontë, for choosing love. I understand that it often requires great sacrifice and courage to choose love and relationship over adventure and novelty. I simply resent this instinct, this gravity we as women feel towards love as the ultimate end, the desired denouement of all our "heroine" stories. My 14-year-old self couldn't have been happier with Jane Eyre's ending, and I'll admit that a less rational part of me loved it yesterday too. But I'm angry at this part of me...of Jane Eyre, of Charlotte Brontë, of all the women who continue to consume this romantic literature in all its forms. I'm angry at the whole institution that keeps producing it.

Here's the thing: romantic love is beautiful, euphoric, life-affirming...yes. But it is not the point. We are here, just like men, to contribute, to create, to add value, to improve upon or at least attempt to heal the world we have inherited. While Jane may have had her era to hide behind, we in 2014 are just as prepared, qualified and capable of doing so as men.

So why do we still have books and films today like Eat, Pray, Love, Bridesmaids and Obvious Child--all featuring smart, modern, even romantically-skeptical female heroines--that still somehow manage to turn into love stories? Is the gravitational pull being felt by the female authors as they write it? Is it us, the female consumers of their work, swaying the market towards our tastes? Why, with all the strides we have made in the last hundred years, is love still the point?

I don't want to sound like a cynic. I want to love and be loved deeply as much as anyone else. But I want much more for myself in this life.  By the end of it, I'd like to have given something of myself, changed something, expressed something in a new way, uncovered new truth. And I want to be inspired by the stories of women (and there are many!) who have done and are continuing to do this in the world, with or without a tear-jerking love story chapter.

Here's hoping I have the courage to live my life like I wish my literary heroines would.