Austen’s heroines dealt with their flaws as though they were simply part of being human, something they admitted to when their characters experienced growth. And their solution was to improve where needed and dig in their heels where not needed. They were also sharply observant—even unapologetically critical—of the ridiculousness of societal norms and rules, another thing that was abundant in the world I grew up in, and which definitely felt ridiculous to me. So my connection to her writing has always felt seminal to me as a person.

I’ve visited the UK several times, but the desire to visit Jane’s homes was always at the back of my mind. A pilgrimage I knew I would go on when I was ready for it. Something I couldn’t push into, but that would come to me when the time was right.

It wasn’t until I had written Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors and Recipe for Persuasion that I fully understood how much of who I am and what I believe about relationships is built on the foundation of Austen’s books. It wasn’t until I grasped this connection that a trip to Hampshire magically and with no effort at all fell in my lap.

I visited her home in Chawton on a drizzly November day, dragging my husband along so he could meet the woman who was at least partially responsible for shaping the obstinate, headstrong girl he’d married. We strolled from her humble home to her brother’s substantially less humble house down a cobbled, meadow-lined path that might as well have been a time machine, if you ignored the stray car. On the way, we stopped at the chapel she worshipped in.

Back at the house she lived and wrote in for eight years and finally died in, I ran my fingers across the walls she’d walked past; read the letters she’d written to her family; and touched the tiny, terribly uncomfortable–looking desk she wrote at (despite the sign that told me not to). I walked the halls and rooms where the stories I love churned and formed in Austen’s head.

I stood too long in the room where she fell ill too young, tears streaming down my face for no apparent reason, except that I was awed. Awed by the connection I, and so many people, continue to feel with her words. Awed by the power of this thing she loved to do, as do I. Despite all the years, culture, and technology separating us, as I stood there in that room, in that moment, I knew at least one thing that she had experienced: the terror and joy of telling stories.