Why I Started Reading Gone with the Wind

I didn’t start Gone with the Wind because someone recommended it. Honestly, I picked it up out of curiosity and a weird sort of challenge — like, “Can I actually get through a book this long?” I thought it would feel like homework. Something heavy, slow, and filled with language that didn’t connect with me. A historical novel about the Civil War? A main character who wears big dresses and complains a lot? I expected to get bored fast.

But I kept reading.

The beginning surprised me. The story opened with Scarlett O’Hara, this spoiled, pretty girl who seemed more interested in attention than anything else. I didn’t like her. But I couldn’t stop watching her. There was something about how confidently she moved through every room, how quickly she picked up on what people wanted from her — and how she used it. She wasn’t likable in the usual sense, but she was interesting. That was the first time I realized this book might not be what I thought.

The writing was more readable than I expected, too. Some of the language is definitely old-fashioned, but it didn’t feel stuffy. It pulled me in slowly. At first, it was more about the drama — the parties, the jealousies, the way people talked in half-truths and hints. Then the war happened, and the whole story changed.

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I don’t usually read historical fiction, but this one made the past feel personal. Suddenly, Scarlett wasn’t just chasing boys. She was running a household, trying to survive, watching everything around her fall apart. The war scenes weren’t full of action like in a movie — they were about hunger, fear, loss, and exhaustion. It made me wonder how I would react if I had to grow up that fast.

Even when Scarlett made choices I didn’t agree with, I couldn’t stop turning the pages. She lies. She manipulates. She clings to things that are clearly slipping away. But she’s also determined. She doesn’t give up, even when she probably should. And somehow, that mix of weakness and strength made her feel real.

The more I read, the more I realized the book wasn’t trying to make her look perfect. It just lets her be who she is, and that made me want to keep watching her. It was like being annoyed by someone, but still wanting to understand them.

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Something else surprised me too: the small moments. It wasn’t just about big events like battles and death. It was in the way people sat silently after getting bad news. The way Scarlett looked at her hands after hard work. The way the house, Tara, started to mean more than just land — it became survival. Identity. A kind of stubborn hope.

There were also moments that made me uncomfortable. The way slavery is described in the book, and how certain characters are portrayed, definitely needs to be read with awareness. It’s important not to ignore the historical context or romanticize it. I think part of reading older books like this is also about being able to hold two thoughts at once — recognizing what’s powerful in the storytelling, while also understanding and critiquing what’s wrong in the way some things are shown.

But even with those parts, I was drawn in by the emotional honesty. The people in this book are messy. They don’t always learn lessons. They don’t always get what they deserve. And maybe that’s what made it feel so real to me.

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By the time I got to the final pages, I realized I’d changed my mind. I didn’t just read Gone with the Wind. I experienced it. It took time. It took patience. But it stayed with me.

I went into it expecting a slow, old-fashioned book I’d probably abandon halfway through. What I got instead was a complicated story that made me feel frustrated, curious, and weirdly connected — even when I didn’t want to be.

So no, I didn’t expect to love it. But I’m glad I gave it a chance.

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