It’s strange to imagine a world in which the literary classic, Little Women, does not exist.
For many of us, the book was an assigned reading. The book gifted to us by the generation behind. The squished together on sleeping bags, watching the 1994 version starring Winona Ryder and Susan Sarandon lit up on the TV, the VHS tape humming in the background. Those who adored the book in their youth showed up for Greta Gerwig’s adaptation, starring Saoirse Ronan and Timothée Chalamet, in 2019.
Who doesn’t love Little Women? We saw ourselves in each of the characters. Meg – the reserved, manner-minding eldest sister. Jo – the spitfire, the author, the refusing-to-be-anchored, Beth – the meek, sweet, kind, and generous third in the batch (whose battle with scarlet fever would later cause her untimely death as we sobbed), and the raucous Amy, who dreamed big and bemoaned being the youngest of the brood. And if you weren’t one of the four March sisters, you saw yourself in Laurie, the precocious neighbour, or Marmie, the Matriarch of the family, holding it together by a thread as father serves in the war.
Yes, Little Women is regarded as a classic, and until today, I would have thought the majority of readers were in agreement that the book was one considered to be universally enjoyed.
(And yes, of course, books are subjective; no two people are required to interpret the message the same, any more than they are required to both enjoy the material.)
However, I was surprised – nay, shocked – to read that Louisa May Alcott was not a fan of the words she penned. The words that have been etched on my heart. The words that gave me inspiration to traipse the world, on the quest to become a wordsmith like the trailblazer Jo, before me. How could she not love this book – this book that ripped out my heartstrings, made me cheer, had me dress up my baby sisters in costume while I had them act out my plays – this is the book. This is the story!
Jo burning Meg’s hair! Rescuing Amy from the frozen lake water! Aunt March leaving for Europe! Beth gifted a piano! The limes! Oh, the limes.
In Louisa May Alcott’s personal journals, dated September 1867, she writes:
September 1867–Niles, partner of Roberts, asked me to write a girls’ book. Said I’d try.
F. asked me to be the editor of “Merry’s Museum.” Said I’d try.
Began at once on both new jobs; but didn’t like either.
Project Gutenberg writes: “She was quite unconscious of the unusual merit of the book, thinking, as she says, the first chapters dull, and so was quite surprised at her success. ‘It reads better than I expected,’ she says, and she truly adds, ‘We really lived most of it, and if it succeeds, that will be the reason for it.’
While it’s widely known that Alcott did take creative liberty with some of the March girls’ upbringing to suit the narrative requested by her publishers (no, she did not want Jo to marry, but when pressured, she created the character of the German professor, who is not based on anyone), ultimately the novel was so well-received, she was able to begin the sequel soon after its publication.
And, although Alcott’s “fancy had always been for depicting the life of boys rather than girls,” my little literary soul is grateful she put ink to paper and scribed a story so rich and engaging that it still captures readers today.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Care is the Social Media Manager at Book Notification. She is an avid reader/writer, Mama to 3 adult kids, a wedding DJ, and a snob for coffee and pop culture. Her favourite book is Maniac Magee by Jerry Spinelli. She lives in Canada with her husband and record collection.