There's something about red-headed little girls that seems to make everyone believe that they have to be the most delightful little children who talk too much and have a larger imagination than the number of freckles on their nose.
But it's not 190...
It's been a long time since 1908, hasn't it? The first time I read Anne of Green Gables, I was eleven years old. I fell in love immediately, and I couldn't get enough of Avonlea. When I read Rilla of Ingleside, I felt so incredibly sad—it was finally over.
So here we are, in a new era that Anne Shirley has never been to. If I had written this book when I was eleven years old, no doubt I would have brought all of Avonlea along with it. But I'm not eleven anymore, and I'm not Lucy Maud Montgomery.
Thus, this book is not the ninth book in the Green Gables series, nor is it a remake of the first. And when you first meet Anne Shirley, she will not be the Anne Shirley you fell in love with when you read Anne of Green Gables. Because she can't be.
The tale is enchanting, but it is not entirely realistic. Anne lost the concept of a loving home as a child, integral years when physical growth can in fact be stunted without this needed love. In those formative years, Anne was unloved, and the truth is, men were not made to live alone. Anne Shirley, no matter how bright the imagination, can not be as vivid without this desperately needed human connection.
Anne of Green Gables was an escape from reality. But putting Anne in the twenty-first century seems to take away the enchantment, and she feels simply out of place. And I have never been an author that offers an escape from reality. Anne Shirley is going to realize reality in its full horror. She is going to be like you and me. But the wonderful thing about reality, is that it can be changed.
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