I had a thought about reading and stories the other day.
I was reading a Georgette Heyer novel that had two people who were married out of convenience. Not so unusual for the time or the genre and generally in such a case the characters realise that they were (or at least were falling) passionately and happily in love the whole time and live happily ever after.
In this book, while the woman in the case was already geuinely in love with the man, the man, from the circumstance of being in love with someone else at the time of the marriage wasn't in love with the woman. Quite the contrary. He found her plain, her company common and her connections disgusted him.
Then as the events of the plot unfolded the wife made the man comfortable, the other young woman made him uncomfortable and if all had gone according to narrative correctness, he would have realised that he was in love with his wife the whole time and they would live happily ever after. Only that didn't happen.
As the end of the book got closer and the amount of pages left were far too low to create a believeable love story, I realised with a sense of total gyppedness that I was going to be told they certainly are going to live happily ever after but don't you ever look to see him say he "fell in love" with his wife. And he didn't!
I was given what in moments of feminist rightousness I had said that I wanted and I didn't like it. Not one little bit.
Take from that what you will. But it would be best to understand that this is a story about faith in fictional narrative and the role that fiction plays in creating personal narrative. Not the refuting of my feminism.