My Particular Friend doesn’t just refer to my novel, but to all the particular literary friendships I have formed, starting from childhood. I believe the very first book I ever read that didn’t involve a poky little puppy or the codependent Dick and Jane was A Princess of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs — although admittedly my memory of my precociousness might be cloudy. Burroughs was a true friend I found in the unlikely confines of a parochial school library and more from his heroes than any Catholic upbringing I learned that you always forgive an enemy, but never turn your back to them. (Of course, I also learned from Burroughs that the stegosaurus can fly, but I am willing to overlook that betrayal.)

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is also an old, old friend, having grown up in San Antonio watching Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson on Saturday morning television. I have no more cherished book than my annotated Holmes.

But I am newly come to Jane Austen, having fallen in love when PBS Masterpiece Classics broadcast several adaptations of her works. I promptly began reading the novels, devouring Pride and Prejudice, plowing through the long passages of Miss Bates in Emma and connecting with Anne Elliot’s second chance at love in Persuasion.

A word of caution: I am not a serious student of 19th-century literature, just a passionate fan. So please forgive my mistakes but please correct them through the diary or through e-mail. And please be advised that my book is a work is in progress. The chapter you read today may be different tomorrow.

A note on quotes: I remember the first time I read a Penguin Classics and noticed the single quote marks surrounding dialog. I added the quirk to my other knowledge of the English, that they drove on the left, called cookies biscuits and pronounced schedule incorrectly.