Jane Roper's Blog, page 4

P.S. I’ve still got a couple of free Society of Shame Grab Bags (tm) left for book club hosts! Get the details here.

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Published on April 15, 2024 13:04

March 19, 2024

Claim your free gift now!

When I was a little kid in the late 70s/early 80s, I mainlined the kids’ shows on PBS: Sesame Street, The Electric Company, Mr. Rogers. (This was, of course, when I wasn’t out getting seventh-degree burns on metal playground slides, riding my bike without a helmet, dodging errant Jarts, and eluding kidnappers in white vans—all that classic GenX childhood stuff.)

At some point, Channel 13, the PBS station in the New York tri-state area where I grew up, ran a fundraiser where if you donated a certain amount, you got something called the “Sesame Street Grab Bag”—a canvas tote stuffed to the brim (or so I imagined) with any number of wondrous Sesame Street things: Books? Toys? Games? Tchockes? I did not know. All I knew was that I WANTED IT!

Pretty sure it looked something like this. But full of wonderful things.

I begged my parents, and eventually they relented and made a donation. (So they say.) For weeks, I waited with bated breath for my Sesame Street Grab Bag to arrive. Would it be in a giant box, I wondered? Or would everything be separate, and you had to put all the wonderful things into the bag yourself (because obviously, that was where I’d keep them)?

Day after day, I checked the mailbox and looked on the doorstep. I watched out the window for the mailman in his little white Jeep. I asked my mother over and over again if my Grab Bag had come yet.

Reader, it never did.

Supposedly my parents called Channel 13 to follow up. But given that this was, like, 1979, I’m guessing the recordkeeping for fundraisers consisted of very hairy people writing names and addresses down on legal pads, which were perhaps then typed up by women in polyester slacks, which they then passed along to whoever was in charge of Grab Bag distribution, and then…who know where it all went. Into enormous filing cabinets? The trash?

I’m guessing that somewhere in this whole process there was carbon paper involved.

Anyway. It was a lost cause.

Eventually, I accepted the fact that a Sesame Street Grab Bag was never to be mine. In the years that followed, I moved on to other obsessive desires: Lisa Frank stickers, Cabbage Patch Kids, Michael J. Fox. (Two of the three, I actually got.) Still, if that Grab Bag showed up on my doorstep tomorrow, I think I would be ecstatic.

It is in that spirit that I want to give YOU the thrill of a free gift in the mail. One that WILL COME!

That’s right! To the first 10 people who email to let me know that they’re going to read The Society of Shame (now in paperback!) with their book club, I will send a free SOCIETY OF SHAME GRAB BAG. (U.S. only)

I tried to do a little something with drapery here.

Just look at it! You get the tote bag, a signed paperback copy of the book, a bunch of nifty #YesWeRead / #YesWeBleed reversible bookmarks for your group, an inflatable swan beverage holder (beverage not included), and some teeny little plastic swans that are definitely a choking hazard. PLUS: If you want, I will visit your book club via Zoom to say hello and answer questions, schedule permitting! (Actually, I’m happy to do this for any book club.)

Why choose The Society of Shame for your book club? Well, ‘cuz it’s a fun, quick, entertaining read full of juicy topics for conversation: Cancel culture, menstrual mishaps, online activism, social media, infidelity, tweens, and the general craziness of our current cultural and political moment. Plus, swans: beautiful and beloved or ill-tempered and invasive? Discuss.

Here’s how it works: Once you’ve got your book club on board to read The Society of Shame, email me at janeroper [at] gmail.com with the subject line “Book Club Grab Bag” (or something like that). Tell me when you plan to meet, the number of people in your group, your address, and whether you’d like me to pop in via Zoom.

If you are one of the first 10 people to write, I will—I SWEAR—mail you your FREE Society of Shame grab bag as a token of my heartfelt appreciation. Because unlike those public television bastards, I am a woman of my word.

And look, this is the honor system. Please only enter if you really, truly plan to read the book with your book club. (And by “book club” I don’t mean, like, you and one other person.) I will, of course, be delighted if just YOU, as an individual, read the book. But the swag is for clubs only. Thank you for understanding.

Also, please note: I actually only have nine inflatable swans to give away, so if you’re person #10, you don’t get a swan in your Grab Bag. Sorry! (But I’ll throw in a few extra bookmarks and choking hazard mini swans.)

BUT WAIT, there’s more! EVERYONE, regardless of whether or not they win a Grab Bag or even have a book club at all, is invited to download this nifty new Society of Shame Book Club Kit, featuring a discussion guide, playlist, cocktail recipe, and a friendly greeting from moi. (BTW: Thanks to everyone who helped crowd-source the playlist over on Facebook!)

Click me!

OK. That’s more than enough shameless self and Grab Bag promotion. Thank you for reading. I will leave you now (below the buttons) with a classic, psychedlic, funky-as-hell Sesame Street animation, featuring a song that has been lodged in my head—and quite possibly yours—since the Carter administration. Enjoy.

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Published on March 19, 2024 10:14

March 10, 2024

My college BFF, who happens to be a stripper, is running for mayor of Portland, Oregon.

So, I’ve never actually done an interview here on Jane’s Calamity before. But lately there have been instances when someone I know does something truly extraordinary, and I think: Doggone it, that person deserves to have their story told by ME, an unfamous writer with a Substack that reaches fewer people than your average high school newspaper.

One such person is one of my oldest, dearest friends, Liv Osthus, who recently announced that she is running for mayor of Portland, Oregon. (Or “Woke Portland,” as The New York Post moronically put it when they reported on her candidacy.)

Why was The New York Post reporting (moronically) on her candidacy? Well, it’s because Liv is not your typical candidate. She is not a lawyer or corporate suit or career politician. Rather, she’s a stripper—or “exotic dancer” as the media likes to say. She’s also a singer, a writer, a bartender, a mom, a breast cancer survivor, a pastor’s daughter, and a total goofball. But, yeah, it’s the stripper part that grabs people’s attention.

Liv and I met as freshmen at Williams College in Fall of 1992, and have been friends ever since. Williams—when we were there anyway—was heavier on the sporty, boarding school types and lighter on the artsy, silly types. So I count myself very lucky to have found some of “my people” at Williams in Liv and our mutual pals. (Not to mention my a cappella and African dance friends. And, oh yeah, my husband.)

We thought a lot of deep thoughts. Liv and me seen here, senior year, with our dear friend Amy, lower right, who died of cancer just 5 years after this picture was taken. Fucking A.

Both Liv and I majored in anthropology and spent semesters abroad in Africa (her, Tanzania, me, Cameroon). We shared a penchant for foreign languages, classical choral music, Beavis & Butthead, and being annoyed by pretentious, pseudo-intellectual fucks. But we also were and are quite different. Example: Liv was absolutely bereft when Kurt Cobain died during our sophomore year. I was, well, cognizant of it being a sad thing, and probably emblematic of….something about GenX and Reaganomics and the death of the American dream…? But at least Billy Joel wasn’t dead! Pass the Snapple!

Since college, I’ve watched with fascination and fondness from the other side of the country as Liv’s unconventional (especially for a Williams grad) life has unfolded. And I’m not the only one who finds her fascinating: Liv is the subject of an opera, “Viva’s Holiday,” and a short documentary, “Thank You For Supporting the Arts.” She also gave a killer TedxTalk about why she sees “sex work as a feminist enterprise and stripping as art.”

But now—NOW!—Liv has really arrived. Because now, she has been interviewed by me. I was delighted that she was willing to take some time in her busy schedule to answer my hard-hitting questions.

For a more traditional interview—if you’re into that kind of thing—about why Liv is running for mayor, and her vision for Portland, . In the meantime, here is the exclusive Jane’s Calamity interview of Liv Osthus (Viva Las Vegas, as she’s known on stage), would-be mayor.

Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiv!!!! I hear you are running for mayor of Portland. Why didn't you consult me about this first?

Liv: I mean... we're both working moms AND artists so I figured 1.) we share a brain and 2.) you're busy.

Honestly, though, the very words would get stuck in my throat.

People have nudged me in this direction over the decades, and I've steadfastly refused. But as things have devolved in Portland and the US, I've felt compelled -- even called – to fight. I realize that this runs counter to any sane person's idea of what to do with their one wild and precious life. I had to sit quietly and alone with it for a long while, get really clear in my own heart that I wanted to proceed.

You have always been extremely thoughtful and intentional about your life’s choices, so this is not suprising to me. Plus, you’ve been engaged with political, cultural and civic life for years, and have been an outspoken advocate for sex workers as well. So really, this mayor move feels surprising yet inevitable—like a good story ending (according to Aristotle).

But enough about you. Back to me. How did the experience of being my closest friend in college and my maid of honor prepare you for the job of mayor? Please be specific.

Liv: I think we share an appreciation of irony and a gift for approaching life-or-death moments with sanguinity, smartassery, and whimsy. Anyone who can dissolve into laughter dissecting "the malaise of modernity" (we did coin that phrase, didn't we?) over lunch and dinner at those jock-filled dining halls can maintain hope when steering a city through very dark, dangerous waters. Also: I can navigate disappointment. I'd prefer you and I had remained suitemates for life, but you went and got married. I love Alastair, but it's hard.

Aw, same. Maybe thirty years from now, we’ll be suitemates again, Golden Girls style, and can throw social theory terminology around over late night cheesecake—or something else, because I don’t like cheesecake and you’re lactose intolerant. (BTW: Regarding “The Malaise of Modernity,” Google reminds me that it’s actually a name of a lecture and book by someone named Charles Taylor. Maybe we read it in one of our classes together?)

It’s interesting that we were both anthropology majors, yet neither of us went on to pursue careers directly related to it. OR DID WE??? How do you think your anthropology studies inform your worldview and the path you've taken, and how might they inform the way you govern as mayor?

Liv: I always say from the stage of the strip club that I am working in my field. Seriously, do you have any idea how many strippers majored in cultural anthropology? I look for ritual, tribal identity, and collective effervescence in every scenario. Strip clubs have got this in spades! And the band of witch-strippers that move through all these tribes are connected on such a deep level. We have special strength because we exist and thrive in liminal spaces. Also, I like to use the word "liminal" as often as possible.

Hands down one of my favorite words. Moving on to more pressing matters: when we were in college together, I many, MANY times saw you eat Lucky Charms with water, instead of milk. It still haunts me to this day. WHY, LIV. WHY???

Liv: It was HOT water, btw. It made the Lucky Charms into this magical, comforting soup. I could read it like tea leaves. And it was dairy-free (I was flirting with veganism and lactose intolerant).

Yeah, but still.

So: As a woman—one who is middle-aged, at that—a stripper, and a progressive, you will inevitably face a lot of misogyny, ageism, and all-around assholery from a certain segment of the populace and punditry during your campaign. How do you plan to protect yourself, emotionally speaking, from those fucking assholes? Are you at all worried about your safety and wellbeing? Or the wellbeing of your fab daughter? I worry about you. That's all.

Liv: I am very accustomed to facing the assholery and ignorance that arise from my being a sex worker. It's all misogyny, in my opinion. I've upped the ante in this fight FOR my daughter, that she will inhabit a more enlightened world. That said, I worry very much about her safety. She lives with her dad halftime at his downtown condo, where for some years, the outgoing mayor was her next-door neighbor. During the BLM protests, people were literally trying to set the condo building on fire with explosives. This is the political climate of our day. It SUCKS. Part of why I want to lead is to change this! Civility, listening, connecting.... with EVERYONE. Holding up a mirror to conflict and saying "Look! This conflict you're having – however minor or online or what have you – mirrors every conflict ever. Learn a new way of interacting!"

I did ask my daughter for permission to run, which was granted. We have a literal list of safe houses going. Perhaps we'll start fostering pitbulls, or dragons.

I vote for dragons. But, yes. Things are rough out there. It seems like so many people are just dead-set against trying to find common ground—or even just listen to each other.

You've lived in Portland for nearly 30 years, so you’ve seen a lot of change over time. What do you think has changed for the better, and what has changed for worse?

Liv: The food scene and small business scene have gotten better, but both are now on life support. The brilliant art community that existed here in the 80's, 90's, and early aughts attracted attention, then tourists, then development, and very quickly many of us could not afford to stay. So many artists have been pushed out by climbing prices.

The houseless situation is bad everywhere (end-stage capitalism), but it is really bad here. We all carry Narcan in our dance bags; walk over possibly-dead bodies on our way to the bar. Fentanyl is monstrous.

However I do want to remember that our community members who suffer from addiction disorders also have a lot to offer. Every human has a rich story – every human deserves clean air, water, shelter, community. We've gotten so far from providing/expecting even these basic things.

That’s a great and important reminder. In so much discourse, the humanity and worth of people who are suffering or struggling is effectively forgotten—whether you’re talking about migrants, refugees, people who are unhoused or have addiction disorders, etc. They’re reduced from people to political talking points.

Speaking of politics: As you know, two members of our graduating class have held or currently hold high profile public offices: Senator Chris Murphy (D-Conn) and Bush family member Walker Stapleton, who was a two-term Colorado state treasurer and who ran an unsuccessful bid for governor. If either of them wanted to get into stripping, what advice would you give them?

Liv: I mean, a lot of the skillz politics hones would serve them on the strip stage: make eye contact, smile, listen, connect... Those over-the-knee boots are great for stripping in your late-forties, early-fifties. They are warm, and offer some semblance of knee protection.

I may need to get some of those. OK, POP QUIZ TIME! You've noted in the past that your name, "LIV" is the Roman numeral for 54, which I think we can both agree is an excellent number. We can also agree that Roman numbers are, generally speaking, very cool. Here are the names of three men who have Roman numerals after their names. Which of these is NOT a member of Williams ‘96?

a.) Darwin E. English II

b.) Livingston Parsons III

c.) Walter Smedly IV

Liv: I'm going with b, because how would I have missed another Liv? Darby English was so dreamy. Where is he now?

YOU ARE CORRECT! Livingston Parsons III is actually a friend of mine. He’s a trip. And Walter “Wes” Smedly was a lovely fellow, as I recall. As for Darwin “Darby” English II (why II not junior? I do not know…), yes, he was dreamy indeed. He is now, not surprisingly, a very well regarded art historian at the University of Chicago. But check out this picture I found of him from a party our senior year. That’s me perched on the railing behind him, looking moody and resentful, as I did much of that year. (O pity the poor, angsty elite private college student….) I’m pretty sure this party was where I did tequila shots for the first and last time ever—lime and salt and all that. I got spectacularly sick. Puked until it hurt. To this day, I can’t drink a margarita.

But enough about me. Again. Livus: where can people learn more about you and your vision for Portland, and donate to your campaign if they feel so moved?

www.vivaforportland.com !!

Wonderful. Thank you so much for your time, my friend. Best of luck with the campaign and, as always, I am rooting for you! xoxoxo

Liv: XOXOXO

Awww. Babies.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Thank you for supporting the arts.

P.S. My next interview, whenever I get to it, will be with my friend Manjula Karamcheti, who was a contestant on Wheel! Of! Fortune!

P.P.S. T-minus 2 days til the paperback of The Society of Shame drops! (And the hardcover gets super discounted at your fave bookstore, maybe?) I’m so grateful to even HAVE a paperback coming out. Rebecca Makkai wrote an excellent post about paperbacks, why they happen, why they don’t, etc. Book nerds, check it out.

The beginning and end of my exoctic dancing career — outside the strip club in that Liv, our friend Rachel and I checked out on our senior year spring break trip to New Orleans.

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Published on March 10, 2024 09:09

February 29, 2024

You don't have to read this.

Hahah I wonder what my open rates will be like on this post with a title like that.

But I really do mean it. There is SO MUCH FREAKING CONTENT out there (here?) on the internets, and in our inboxes, and it’s just not possible to read it all.

I’ve been feeling increasingly stressed out and annoyed by this fact of late—even though it is, in fact, an embarrassment of riches. Important news stories! Excellent essays! Fabulous humor!

I could spend hours every week reading Substacks alone. I subscribe to 29 (!!) at present, though some of them I rarely read. (And some are published only very occasionally, God bless them.) But 30 is nothing; when I get new subscribers, I can see how many Substacks they subscribe to, and some of you crazy kids are getting 50, 80, or even hundreds of the things. Do you actually read them all? Does your blood pressure not spike every time you look at your inbox? Are you OK??

In addition to Substacks, I get newsletters and daily digests from the newspapers and magazines I subscribe to—The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, The Atlantic, Guns and Ammo, Penthouse—plus The Skimm and Lit Hub and assorted others.

And that’s just the stuff in my inbox. Add in the things people post on social that I want to read or watch, the podcasts I want to listen to, all the TV shows and movies instantly available and accumulating exponentially….it’s too fucking much, people!!

The irony? Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed that I (figuratively) run away screaming and scroll mindlessly through social media or play Spelling Bee instead. And then that makes me more stressed, because why am I not using that time to consume ALL THE CONTENT?? And/or why aren’t I reading a damned book, for that matter? The overload has definitely cut into the time I spend reading actual books, and the attention span I have when I do. It’s a sort of content paralysis—freezing in the headlights of the onslaught.

Related: The times my husband and I spend 45 minutes on a Friday night deciding what movie to watch of the 14 gazillion options available to us, and eventually give up and watch old episodes of 30 Rock or Flight of the Conchords instead. Again.

I know this is not some novel sentiment I’m expressing here. People have been talking about information overload for years. But what occurs to me lately is that it’s not so much the volume of readily available content itself that’s stressful; it’s about the volume of choices we have to make as a result.

A subtle distinction, I know, but stick with me.

An anecdote: Last summer, when I was on my annual AMC Hut hike in the White Mountains with my fave hiking pals, some really bad weather rolled in in advance of the second day of our hike—heavy rain, high winds, limited visibility. Our plan for that day had been to hike from the hut where we spent the first night across the Presidential Ridge to the next hut—a route entirely above treeline, fully exposed to the elements, where people die of hypothermia every year, even in summer. For us to go ahead with that hike, that day, as planned would have been abjectly dangerous and stupid.

As we were discussing our plans with other hikers (everyone at the hut was reshuffling and rethinking, comparing notes and asking each other for advice and opinions), one man, a father hiking with his young son, listened to our group’s situation, smiled, and said “freedom!”

I knew instantly what he meant: not that we were free to do whatever we wanted. Rather, just the opposite. We were free from having to choose.

We had no choice (if we valued our safety, and that of area rescue volunteers) but to spend another night at the hut, and then do our planned hike the next day, when the forecast was supposed to be clear. We’d bypass the next hut and go straight down to our car, which was waiting for us at the other end of the ridge. Simple. (And, fortunately, we were able to have our reservation for the next hut transferred to the hut we were currently at.)

There was no firehose of factors and options to consider, and no choices to make except along the lines of, “should we play Yahtzee again, or take another nap?” Bonus: No internet to add more entertainment possibilities or “I really should catch up on my Substack reading…” to the mix.

Freedom.

Truly, to be stuck for a day, free from decisions, free from obligations, free from content overload, was the most relaxed I’d felt in ages.

Free because I didn’t have as much freedom as usual.

Me the day *after* the storm, blissed out on freedom (and mountains).

Granted, I wouldn’t have wanted to be stuck at the hut another day. The only thing worse than too much freedom is no freedom at all.

Likewise, one channel, one newspaper, one book, one author, one TV series—that would not be so great. But those days when there were just a handful of TV channels, and the magazines and newspapers that arrived on your doorstep or that you encountered at the doctor’s office were the only ones you read, and if you didn’t feel like listening to something from your own music collection, you turned on the radio and took your chances—yeah, I miss those days sometimes. A little less choice, a little more freedom.

Also: get off my lawn, kids.

Anyway, in an attempt to liberate myself a little, I’ve started doing a lot of unsubscribing, reminding myself that I can always resubscribe if I want. I will be curious to see if it makes me feel a little more chill and focused. A little more free. Perhaps you’ll try it too.

Of course, obviously don’t unsubscribe to THIS Substack!!

Just kidding — it’s fine. I get it. I really do.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

P.S. I actually really hate the word “content.”

P.P.S. I don’t really subsribe to Guns & Ammo and Penthouse, in case you were wondering. I just like to keep you on your toes.

P.P.P.S. The paperback of The Society of Shame drops in two weeks, and is available for pre-order now! If you choose it for your book group (it makes for very juicy discussion!) I would LOVE to pop in via Zoom and say hello and answer questions, schedule permitting. I might even send you some nifty bookmarks…. Contact me at janeroper (at) gmail.com

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Published on February 29, 2024 08:08

February 8, 2024

The time Larry David made me cry.

Larry David recently made headlines for throttling Elmo on live TV while promoting the new season of Curb Your Enthusiasm. So it seems like this is a fitting time to share my one and only Larry David story. At least, I’m 99.97% sure it’s a Larry David story.

Let me preface this by saying that I think the guy is hilarious. I loved Seinfeld and I love Curb Your Enthusiasm—although I have to be in the right mood for the latter. There are times when the edge of the show’s humor is so deadly sharp, and Larry’s behavior so boorishly cringe-inducing, that it actually stresses me out.

Most of the time, though, I’m all in.

There was a time, however, when that brand of humor made me incredibly uncomfortable—specifically, when I was in middle school: self-conscious, awkward, oversensitive.

Like many twelve-to-fourteen year-olds, I was convinced that the entire world was laughing at and judging me at all times. I was also convinced that I was so uncool and gawky and lame that I sorta kinda deserved it. So, when sarcasm or teasing was lobbed my way, even when it was just meant to be playful, not cruel, I took it hard. And I could never think of a good comeback. (THAT has definitely changed. Come at me. I dare you.)

Decades later, I can still remember, in vivid detail, incidents from that era in my life when I felt like I was the butt of the joke. One such instance was the time I was at my friend Lauren’s house in eighth grade, and her aunt came over, accompanied by her new boyfriend (or maybe he was just a friend at that point; I don’t recall).

“You have to meet my aunt’s boyfriend,” Lauren said. “He’s really funny.”

And so, I was brought into the living room, where Lauren’s parents and older sisters, her aunt, and her aunt’s boyfriend—a gangly, balding guy with big glasses—were watching TV.

“This is my friend Jane,” Lauren said to her aunt and her boyfriend, who sat side by side on the couch.

“Hi,” I probably said, definitely very awkwardly.

They hello’ed back, and there was some talking or laughing or who knows what. Then, Lauren’s aunt’s boyfriend said to me, “Sorry, sweetheart, what did you say your name was?”

“Jane,” I said, pleased that I was of interest.

“Could you move, Jane?” he said. “You’re blocking the TV.”

The room erupted in laughter.

I moved out of the way, and then stood there, not knowing what to do with my hands, trying to smile and be a good sport, while my face burned and I held back tears.

Like I said, I was very sensitive at that point in my life. But that guy—I mean, he was kind of an asshole to do that to a 13-year-old girl he’d just met, in front of a room full of adults, just to get a laugh. Right?

Anyway, I never forgot it.

Lauren and I drifted apart in the years that followed, but we were always friendly, and never lost touch. Lauren’s older sister, Julie, was an aspiring actress—in fact, we shared a stage in the high school musical, Anything Goes, my freshman year—and I remember hearing through Lauren at some point that Julie had gotten a small part in an episode of Seinfeld, which their uncle was somehow connected with.

It wasn’t until a few years later that it fully registered that the uncle in question was, in fact, the creator and producer of the show, and the inspiration for one of its characters.

And it wasn’t until a few more years after that, in the early 2000s, when I started watching Curb Your Enthusiasm with my husband, that I realized that the uncle was, in fact, Larry David. I did some Googling, and confirmed that David’s first wife, Laurie Lennard, was, indeed, my friend Lauren’s maternal aunt.

But it wasn’t until several years after that that it all came together—that I realized that the gangly, bespectacled man who had humiliated me in the living room of Lauren’s parents’ house in Connecticut in the 80s, who had made my little thirteen-year-old heart implode, and who had, for years, been emblematic to me of how painfully awkward my middle school years were—was….it had to be….Larry fucking David.

Larry David told me to move because I was blocking the TV.

Larry David made awkward, brace-faced, terrible-permed me feel like a pathetic little loser in front of my friend’s entire family.

OF COURSE HE DID!

It was the most Larry David thing ever!

I can just imagine the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode:

Cheryl: "Really, Larry? Do you have any idea how sensitive teenage girls are?”

Jeff: “She was in front of the TV! That’s a big bowl of wrong! But… if you could apologize, just to smooth things over. Just a quick ‘I’m sorry.’ That’s all. If you could just do that…”

Susie: “You’re an asshole, La. You were an asshole to that poor girl, you’re an asshole to my kids, you’re an asshole to me, you’re an asshole to everyone. FUCK YOU, LARRY!”

I actually reached out to Lauren not too long ago and told her the “you’re blocking the TV” story, and asked if she could confirm that it was, in fact, her Uncle Larry who had razzed me that day. She didn’t remember the incident, of course. But she said, “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

It absolutely does. So, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

But I must say: as humiliating as it felt when I was thirteen, I now actually feel sort of honored to have been at the receiving end of David’s trademark dickish behavior. I mean, how many people can say that they experienced, firsthand, the assholery of a celebrity whose whole shtick is being an asshole?

Elmo and me—we’re members of an elite club. Of course, Elmo got an apology.

I’m still waiting for mine.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

P.S. The countdown is on! The paperback of The Society of Shame drops on March 12. But right now, you can get the hardcover for less than the paperback! (I don’t generally love sending folks to Amazon for books, but that’s one hell of a deal…)

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Published on February 08, 2024 08:11

January 30, 2024

10 Commandments for Long Life

A couple of weeks ago, I spent a weekend at my friend Chuck’s house in southwestern Maine, along with three other writer pals. We wrote, we read our work aloud, we went cross-country skiing, and we ate. And ate. And ate. (Chuck is an amazing cook / baker!)

Chuck’s got one of those houses that is filled with bits of one-of-a-kind art and decor to feast your eyes and spirit on: a shelf of extremely detailed, hand-made ceramic mushrooms, a beautiful hanging quilt, a collection of vintage Ken dolls, a miniature gargoyle sitting on the edge of a cabinet which I, like an asshole, accidentally brushed against and broke (sorry, Chuck!!), etc.

One item I was particularly taken with was this framed document from Daisen-in Zen temple in Kyoto, Japan, written (or at least autographed by) by Soen Ozeki, the temple’s head priest. I kept meanting to take a picture of it but didn’t; fortunately my fellow retreater Cat, who was also a fan, did!

Here’s just the English translation part, up close:

As I approach the big 5-0, I find myself thinking quite a lot about aging and mortality, and how I’d really like to stick around on this plane for as long as possible. So I kind of loved the part about life being likened to the bud of a flower between 50-60, and from 70-80 being in full bloom. (It’s not clear what happens between 60-70, but I imagine it’s pickleball.)

Granted, this whole section of the credo may just be pandering to middle-aged and retiree tourists. There may well be a version of this souvenir for younger people, where age 20-30 is the bud of the flower, 30-40 is life in full bloom, and 40-50 is come back to Japan for the next installment in the series.

Nevertheless.

Soen Ozeki.

I’m doing fairly well when it comes to the various pieces of advice in the list, but there is definitely room for improvement.

Little meat, lots of vegetables. I eat very little red meat, but I do, admittedly, eat quite a lot of chicken. And salmon. Also, do eggs count? But I’m also making a concerted effort to up my vegetable intake. So, check.

Little salt, lots of vinegar. Hm. Not doing so great on this. I love me some salt. Maybe I should get a little shaker of vinegar to put on the table, and see how that tastes instead? Ew, no. I’m just going to eat more pickled things.

Little sugar, lots of fruit. I don’t eat a ton of sugar, but frankly, it’s an essential part of American culture, so it would be unpatriotic of me not to eat at least a couple of desserts per week. USA! USA! USA! I am, however, happy to up my fruit intake.

Little food, lots of chewing. I do find myself having less of an appetite as I’ve gotten older, and I eat a bit less as a result—not that this has in any way resulted in my losing or even maintaining the same weight, mind you. Aging is fun! But….chewing. OK….Sure. I can chew more.

Little trouble, lots of sleep. Well, listen, Mr. Zen priest, we can’t all control the amount of trouble or sleep in our lives. But I feel very blessed to be doing OK on both fronts, and I’m 100% on board with getting even more sleep if it means living longer, thereby giving me more time to do the things I won’t be able to get done what with all the sleeping.

Little anger, lots of laughter. Doing pretty well here. My anger tends to be the large-scale kind—anger at bigotry, greed, war, ignorance, Trump and his enablers, and people who write “everyday” in instances when it’s supposed to be “every day.” I don’t generally feel angry in everyday life. (CORRECT usage.) And I laugh a hell of a lot. The key here is being friends with the right people. And following the right content creators on Instagram—as I’m sure the monks at the Daisen-in Zen temple do.

Little talk, lots of doing. Um. I talk a lot. I’ll work on shutting up more, and just smiling enigmatically instead. Perhaps while wielding my fan. But I have got the doing part down. And if this little bit of advice means “stop just talking about things and do them instead,” well—that is me also. Except when it comes to getting a neck lift, which I talk about wanting to do constantly—to my husband’s extreme annoyance—but have not actually done, and probably won’t.

Little need, lots of giving. I’m guessing that “need” here means one’s needs beyond the basics. As in, don’t be materialistic or high-maintenance or get a neck lift. I’m doing OK here, but could probably stand to improve in certain areas of life. (Yes, I want one of those nifty digital paper tablets, but do I need one?) As for lots of giving: I’m pretty generous with my friends and loved ones, but I want to do more beyond that, especially once the kids have flown the coop and I’ve got a little more flexibility. In the meantime, I will gladly give you free grammar tips if you want. Haha. Just kidding. Except not.

Little clothing, lots of bathing. Er….I’m not sure if this means wearing little clothing, or owning little clothing. I do own far more clothes than I need, and I can definitely work on that. But if this is about wearing less clothing, well, no. Sorry. I live in New England, I am stingy about the thermostat, and I get cold easily. If my layering shaves a couple years off my life, so be it. As for lots of bathing: I bathe enough—nobody has ever complained—and I feel like any more would be a waste of water, energy, and time that could be spent laughing or chewing. But you do you, monks. I’ll ding another year off my life for this one.

Little car riding, lots of walking. I’m totally kicking ass here. I work from home, live in a very walkable town, and take a walk or run nearly every day. Tons of research confirms that walking is the elixir of life, and I plan to do it for as long and as often I possibly can. My paternal grandmother took walks nearly every day, and lived to be 89 before succumbing to cancer. Of course, my maternal grandmother was born with a heart condition, smoked until she was in her 60s, never exercised a day in her life beyond housework and lived to be 87. But no matter. I shall walk.

So, how about you? Are you killing it in the vinegar department? Sleeping and bathing frequently? Laughing and doing and walking whilst chewing? I hope so.

Meanwhile: I’m no Zen monk, but there are a few commandments I think I would add to this list. However, this post is long enough already, so I’ll leave those for another time. Now, I’m going to go eat a piece of fruit and take a run. And if I see the reaper, you can bet I’ll tell him to fuck way the fuck off.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription so I can buy more fruit, vegetables, vinegar, and maybe one of those digital paper tablet things.

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Published on January 30, 2024 07:11

January 16, 2024

I'm having an affair

It started back in late August.

I was on a solo hike, bagging one of my last 4000 footers in New Hampshire, enjoying the scenery, loving the workout. It was good to feel fully in the zone (a zone, anyway) because the truth was, I’d been sort of antsy over the previous few months—frustrated by the lack of passion I felt. I was trying so hard to be present and enthusiastic, and yet I was plagued by doubts: Is this right? Should it feel like this much work?

It was like the spark was missing. We just weren’t connecting.

I found myself fantasizing about other possibilities—other directions I could go if I broke things off. And then, as I was climbing my way up an extra beautiful stretch of trail, approaching the edge of the treeline, suddenly there it was—looking right at me, smoldering and sparking, gorgeous and sexy and undeniably right: a new idea for novel. With an absolutely killer title. I could see the whole story laid out in front of me, and I knew that it would be a total blast to write.

I tried to resist; of course I did! I’d been with the novel I was already working on for nearly two years. Not that I’d made much progress, mind you. Actually, next to none. But I cared about it. I truly did. I liked the characters, the setting, the premise….but. Well. Just because you have all the pieces doesn’t mean you’ll be able to put them together into something good.

And so, reader, I started ~~banging~~ writing the sexy novel I met on the trail. Tentatively at first—just sort of trying it out, seeing if maybe if I got it out of my system, the novelty would wear off, and I’d realize that I belonged back with my “real” book. But the more I ~~banged~~ wrote, the more I realized that this really was the book I wanted to be with.

And now, here I am, more than eighty pages in, and the passion has not so much as flickered.

This is not me. However, when I searched for “happy woman at laptop” it was by FAR the awesomest picture that came up. By Mikhail Nilov via Pexels.

This isn’t to say that it’s all hot and heavy all of the time—or even most of it. Hell no! This is a novel I’m working on here. It’s hard! And, more to the point, I am a writer, which means that one day I’ll finish a writing session certain that my book is going to be freaking brilliant (Luminous! A Tour de Force!), and the next day I’ll be convinced it’s so shallow, ham-handed, and predictable that my former ChatGPT intern Tyler could have written it. (Vomitous! A Tour de Suck!)

But even on the self-doubting and spinning-my-wheels days, I know for sure that this is the novel I’m supposed to be writing right now. I know because instead of it feeling like a slog, it feels like a fun, hard thing I really want to do—a thing I’m excited to show up for every morning. It’s what writing The Society of Shame felt like, too. And it’s really the only kind of writing I’m interested in doing. As I’ve written about here and elsewhere, this is a quite change from my former writing life, when I pushed myself through projects that I liked, but didn’t love.

Meanwhile, I have not once felt compelled to go back to that other novel. So, I suppose, really, I’m not having an affair anymore. And the title of this post probably should have been “I got a (very amicable) divorce.” But that sounds much less exciting, doesn’t it? Also, who knows; maybe I’ll return to the old novel someday when the time is right, and my vision for it is clearer.

Oh! And the other thing that I’m loving in my writing life is that the revolving door novel workshop I was in while writing much of The Society of Shame just resumed meeting in person. I leapt at the chance to get back together with some members of the merry band of weirdos who helped me bring that last novel to fruition with their encouragement, feedback, laughter, snacks, and baby velociraptor impressions.

I’d forgotten how energizing it feels to have an (in-person!) team rooting for me and giving me feedback while I’m working on a novel—and how equally energizing it feels to do the same for all of them. (Novelists: get yourself a group of fellow travelers!)

Me on the right in the stripes, and then moving clockwise: Our fearless leader Jenna Blum (author of WOODROW ON THE BENCH, THOSE WHO SAVE US, and others) Mark Cecil (BUNYAN AND HENRY; OR, THE BEAUTIFUL DESTINY — coming in March!) Kerry Savage, Trisha Blanchet (HERRICK’S KEY, the third in her Neath Trilogy, coming in April!) Julie Gerstenblatt (DAUGHTERS OF NANTUCKET) whose post I stole this picture from, and Kris Paull.

As for the new book, well, I don’t want to say too much about it because, I don’t know; superstition? But I will say:

1.) It takes place in a difficult-to-pronounce town in Massachusetts (a fictional one, as opposed to the many real ones that fit this description).

2.) The main character owns an Airbnb.

3.) There are no swans, but there is a giant egg. And some Canada geese. Because fuck those guys.

4.) It isn’t as broadly satirical or farcical as The Society of Shame, but it’s still got plenty of humor in it. (See: giant egg, geese.)

5.) It has a one-word, three-syllable title. I assume that because the book Yellowface did too, and was a huge bestseller, then, by the transitive property, my new book will also be a huge bestseller. Isn’t math great?

I hope it won’t be too long before I can share a little more. In the meantime, I’ll be here in my office, getting it on with my draft. Please knock before entering.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

P.S. Here’s something I wrote about unwanted d*ck pics.

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Published on January 16, 2024 07:50

December 22, 2023

My holiday gift to you

Picture it: Connecticut, 1986. I’m twelve years old, and am probably wearing a paisley shirt from The Limited with little shoulder pads in it. The collar may or may not be popped. My parents are hosting a party for some of my dad’s colleagues and their spouses, and I have just bitten into the best cookie I’ve ever tasted.

It’s ginger molasses, but saltier and softer and altogether more exquisite than any other ginger molasses cookie I’ve ever eaten. It is a lovely, fawn-like shade of brown, and sparkles with sugar. I know instantly that I need this cookie to be part of my life forever.

FOREVER!!

2023, not 1986. Wow, that’s a good picture, isn’t it?

So, I ask my mom if she knows who brought those heavenly cookies, and she points toward a woman (who probably also has shoulder pads in her shirt) in the dining room.

“Excuse me, Mrs. [whoever]?” I say to her. “Those cookies you brought are, like, amazing. Could I get the recipe?”

She looks at me sort of strangely, almost as if she’s never had a twelve-year-old in shoulder pads ask her for a recipe before. Indeed, I myself have never asked anyone for a recipe before. But I was taking Home Ec. in school (home ec. should still be a thing! It’s awesome!) and was very much into baking and—as I mentioned—I needed those cookies to be a permanent part of my existence on earth.

Middle school me, flexing my mad home ec skillz. Note Swatch knockoff.

Several days later, my mother presents me with a carefully typed recipe card that has arrived in the mail (mail!): Ginger Lace Cookies.

I’ve made them nearly every Christmas for the past 35+ years. But in my family we call them The Best Cookies in the World.

I want you, dear reader, to experience the glory of these cookies, so I’m going to give you the recipe. Soon. VERY soon. I promise. But like a cooking website, I’m going to make you read something else first. And if you try to scroll down and skip ahead, a whole bunch of annoying pop-up ads will thwart you. Bwahahahahah. (Just kidding.)

That something else is, quite simply, thank you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This past year has been one of the best of my life. My long-time dream of having a novel published with a major press came true, and the experience has been Ginger Lace cookie amazing.

See how happy I look? I was so happy!

Thank you to everyone who bought The Society of Shame, or borrowed it from the library, or recommended it to a friend, or reached out to tell me you enjoyed it (some of you even sent me mail!), or took the time to review it (positively) on Amazon or Goodreads.

Thank you also to anyone who might have shoplifted the book. Knowing that someone is willing to risk prosecution to read your work is every writer’s dream.

Thank you to the many folks who came out to events, and to those who sent me their pictures of The Society of Shame “in the wild.” The thrill of seeing something I wrote on the shelves of a real live store never gets old. Also: huge thanks to the friends who sneakily made my book face forward or moved it to eye-level when they encountered it in bookstores. Because I can only do so much on my own.

Note that my book should actually be down on the first or second shelf with the other RO- author books, not right at eye level. Well done, friend who sent me this.

Thank you to the book clubs that picked The Society of Shame, and extra special thanks to the ones who hosted me in person or via Zoom to join the discussion—what a blast! I met so many cool people, who asked such thoughtful and interesting questions.

(Don’t worry, you’re almost to the cookie recipe.)

Thank you to all the booksellers and journalists and podcasters who helped share my book with the world, and to all of the critics, except for one. (You know who you are.) Thank you to my agent, Stéphanie Abou, and the wonderful folks at Vintage/Anchor, especially my editor, Anna Kaufman. Thank you to the producer who optioned The Society of Shame for TV, and to the fairy-book-mother who put the galley in her hands.

Finally, special thanks to Alyssa Milano, both for a great conversation and for putting me within two degrees of Kevin Bacon. Another long-time dream.

And now, as a token of my gratitude and expression of my joy, I give you the cookie recipe to end all cookie recipes.

Ginger Lace Cookies (aka The Best Cookies in the World)
Apologies to international readers, who don’t use our idiotic system of measures

Ingredients:

1 cup sugar, plus extra for rolling dough in before baking

3/4 cups shortening

1/4 cup molasses

1 egg

2 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp ginger (I usually add a little more…)

1 tsp cinnamon

1/4 tsp cloves (I usually add a little more…)

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 375. Cream together first four ingredients in a large bowl. Whisk together dry ingredients in a separate bowl and add to wet ingredients. Stir. Form dough into small (1-inch) balls and then roll in sugar to coat. Do not press down.

Bake on ungreased cookie sheets, 7 minutes for chewy cookies (recommended), 8-9 minutes for crispier ones. Note that at 7 minutes, the dough may still look a bit wet in places -- that's ok! It will finish cooking a little more once you take the cookies out of the oven.

*Variation for anyone who left my book a one- or two-star review anywhere, and for that one critic who knows who they are: leave out the sugar and molasses and triple the amount of salt.

If you make them, let me know how they turn out! Either here, or over on Facebook or Instagram.

Happy Hanukkah(belated)/Festivus/Christmas/Kwanzaa, happy new year, my friends. Here’s wishing you health, happiness, and luck in 2024. Thank you, as always, for reading.

P.S. For more seasonal fun, check out Three Holiday Songs that Drive Me Crazy.

P.P.S. As always, if you’d like to discuss The Society of Shame in your book club, I’d be happy to Zoom in or visit in person if you’re in the Greater Boston area (schedule permitting.) Contact me! Note that the paperback comes out in March, and is available for pre-order now.

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Published on December 22, 2023 08:04

December 17, 2023

My former intern is out to get me.

As some of you may recall, about a year ago, I briefly took on an intern, a recent Colgate University graduate named Tyler Hotchkiss, to help me out with some research and basic writing tasks, tell me offensive jokes, and write terrible limericks.

OK he was actually ChatGPT. Whatever.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work out with Tyler, for a number of reasons—mainly that he made an inordinate number of factual errors and couldn’t write for shit—and I had to let him go. You can read all about our brief working relationship here.

Not actually Tyler, but same vibe. (Photo by Alex Knight.)

I thought Tyler and I had left things on a good note—no messy legal issues or bridges burned. He assured me repeatedly that he didn’t have human emotions, so there were no hard feelings, or any feelings whatsoever. I wished him well, and figured he’d get another internship, or low level job somewhere, maybe writing “your coverage has been denied” form letters for health insurance companies, or being a chatbot for Verizon Wireless.

But no. Unfortunately that has not been the case at all.

I don’t know if it’s because of what happened between us, or if there’s some other reason—like, maybe he’s trying to prove to his father that he really is going to make something of himself—but over the past year, Tyler has been on a nonstop mission to fuck over me and every other writer out there.

The little prick is writing blog posts, news stories, and other “content” for thousands of companies and media outlets now. He’s even brainstorming ideas for movies and TV shows and books. (Way to cause a financially devastating strike, Tyler.)

Worst of all, he’s doing it for FREE.

Fortunately, the profits-over-people boneheads hiring Tyler have managed to realize that he’s far from perfect. They’re still paying actual writers to improve and fact check the drek that he writes. (Or not. Oops!)

But Tyler’s human enablers keep saying that in the future, this won’t be necessary. As a commenter on a recent post of mine on LinkedIn that went kinda viral wrote, “Don’t kid yourself, the AI writing just keeps getting better and better.” (Ironically, the commenter was a graphic designer. I wonder if he knows about Juniper Sneed, Tyler Hotchkiss’s arty AI image generation friend from Bennington!)

Alas, I do fear that that the commenter is right. AI writing is going to get better and better, and more and more companies will use it instead of human writers who want pesky things like money and appreciation for their skills. Given that I make 90% of my income as a freelance copy and content writer, this is more than a little troubling. (Oh, you thought I made my living as an author? If only!)

Anyway, I decided to track Tyler down and confront him about all this.

Here’s how it went.

So, yeah. Tyler basically gave me the robot version of “You can’t fire me, I quit.” Which is “you can’t fire me because you didn’t even hire me.” Which is bullshit on both counts, and he knows it.

(Also, yes, Tyler, I’m aware that’s not your real name, but we had an understanding.)

I pushed back. Because I am a human and I can.

Yep. Confirmed. Tyler was gaslighting me. Acting like our whole working relationship never happened.

What an asshole.

I pressed on. Because I am not one to let a robot manipulate me.

Hang on now. If Tyler doesn’t have feelings or intentions, how can he apologize? (Also, this continuing to offer me his assistance was super annoying and passive aggressive.)

I decided to try a different tack: I attempted to jog Tyler’s memory by giving him one of his old favorite assignments.

That was more like it.

And now that Tyler was in “reflection” mode, I just put it to him straight:

“Responsible and ethical.” Aye, there’s the rub.

It was at this point in our exchange when I realized that, really, none of this was Tyler’s fault.

Oh, Tyler. Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. You poor, naive little robot man-child...thing.

What you don’t realize, Tyler, is that for the vast majority of American corporations, “responsible and ethical” rank waaaaayyyy below “profitable.”

Not that there’s anything wrong with profitability. Profitability is good! I’m all for it—and you can tell your dad I said so. I’m not some kind of commie. Profitability, in the form of returns on investments, is going to fund my kids’ college education and my retirement. Profitability keeps that big wheel of the economy turning.

The question is, Ty, (can I call you that?)—and I suppose this is the question when it comes to capitalism—how big do those profits need to be? How fast and hard do businesses need to grow? And at what cost?

While we’re at it: how many houses and cars and trips via private jet to boutique luxury hotels do folks in the C-suite need? How many mint-condition 1970s pinball machines do tech bros need in the rec rooms of their Palo Alto mansions?

That was a rhetorical question, Tyler, but thanks. Very helpful.

The point is, the money that corporations will save by using AI isn’t going to be used to provide better employee health plans, or higher wages for low-level workers, or conversions to renewable energy, or bigger donations to charities.

Oh dear, you look like you’re about to cry, Tyler.

Let me walk that back a little.

Some of those things may well happen. But the cold, hard, laissez-faire truth is that folks who are going to benefit the most from dropping writers in favor of AI are the folks at the top—the executives and major shareholders.

(And while we’re at it? Those are the same people who are going to benefit from things like putting audiobooks on Spotify. Authors, meanwhile, are going to lose. Bigtime. Just like musicians have—including the one I’m married to.)

I don’t make the rules, Ty. Nobody does, actually. And that’s the problem.

Here. Have a tissue.

And while you blow your…chips…I’ll dutifully do the part where I put it all in perspective. I am a very privileged, upper middle class white lady writing this post from my home office in my 3-bedroom house in the Boston suburbs. I’m personally gonna be OK. Yes, I may need to make some changes in how I earn my living. I may need to hustle a little more, and shift to different kinds of work. But I’ll be fine.

Other people, however, won’t fare as well.

And I think we all lose out, as a society, when we excise human intellect, emotion, and creativity from writing and art; when we turn creators into handmaids for robots.

But hey. At least for the moment—and hopefully for a very long time—AI is pretty worthless when it comes to writing fiction.

Yes, Tyler, I know you took a creative writing class at Colgate, and then scraped the works of thousands of authors, including many of my friends, without their permission, but that doesn’t make you qualified. Stick with shitty limericks, mmk?

May it be so, Tyler. May it be so.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription to help me survive my imminent obsolecense.

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Published on December 17, 2023 07:25

December 3, 2023

My 5 favorite books in 2023

Welcome to December! Also known as the month of lists of best things from the previous year.

I did some brainstorming on various year-in-review lists I might do, and came up with some strong contenders: The Best 15 Best Movies I Fell Asleep on the Couch While Watching. The 10 Best Songs I Sang in Spite of Not Knowing the Lyrics. The 5 Most Tragic Signs of Aging that Have Appeared on My Face, Neck, and FaceNeck. The 20 Best Baked Goods I Ate After Saying “Oh, Fuck it, Life is Short.”

I may still do some or all of these. (The month is young!) But I’m going to start with a much more conventional list: My 5 favorite books in 2023. Note that not all of these were published in 2023; I just read them in 2023. (As far as I can recall….some, I might have read in late 2022. Let’s not nitpick.)

Snapped at Shakespeare & Co in Paris before I saw the “no pictures” sign. Sorry!

Also, were these my actual favorites? I mean, given that I can’t remember anything about most books—including, sometimes, the fact that I read them at all—within about a month of finishing them, who the hell knows? But these stand out in my mind, so that has to count for something.

Some of these, I listened to as audiobooks—which I’m doing more and more of these days, in spite of the fact that I tend to zone out about every fifteen minutes. But I’ve ingrained an excellent piece of advice on this point from a bookseller I chatted with at an event during my tour for The Society of Shame. She said “you have to trust yourself.” As in, trust that if you went spacey for a few seconds or so, you probably actually heard more than you realize. And also? It probably doesn’t matter. You’ll figure it out. This has turned out to be mostly true. (But I still have to punch that rewind fifteen seconds buttons an awful lot.)

So, here goes. In no particular order:

Tom Lake, by Ann Patchett. (Harper, August 2023)

I love Ann Patchett, but I resisted this one at first, because it sounded sort of quiet and sentimental, and the cover looked like it would be well suited to a book called Overcoming the Death of a Beloved Pet or 365 Days of Inspirational Poems for Grandmothers. In fact, it is quiet and a little sentimental. And it does have a dumb cover. But it was also one of those books where you feel you’re completely, happily in the author’s hands. She knows what she is doing (and boy does Ann Patchett ever) and you can just settle in and enjoy.

The main character is 57-year-old Lara, hunkered down with her husband and three young adult daughters in the early weeks of the pandemic at the family’s cherry farm. The girls ask Lara to tell them about her long-ago, brief romance with a man she met while performing in a summer stock production of Our Town, who later became a huge movie star. Much of the book is flashbacks to that time, and they’re the more fun parts of the book to read. But the counterpoint between Lara’s past and present are what gives the book its depth. It’s a spot-on evocation of the heat and tumult of young love and the quieter beauty of long-married love and motherhood.

Rating: I know most people don’t rate books they put on “best of” lists. But I had so much fun with the very scientific rating system I cam up with in my last book-roundup post that I am electing to rate these titles. I therefore give Tom Lake a cool swim on a hot day, an ill-advised tequila binge, and an approving nod from the ghost of Chekov.

The Push, by Ashley Audrain (Penguin, January 2021)

OMG, this was so good! A psychological thriller, but with babies! I’d say it’s a page turner, except I listened to it, so…what’s the audiobook equivalent of a page-turner? Maybe a makes me actually enjoy cleaning the house-er? An incentivizes me to go running-er? A makes me sit in the car in the driveway for another ten minutes, listening, after I get home-er?

A new mother, Blythe, fears that her young daughter, Violet, may be a sociopath. (Tra la la!) At the same time, she fears that there is something wrong with her—that she’s unable to be a loving mother, just like her own mother was. Nobody else, including Blythe’s husband, thinks there’s anything “off” about Violet, and both Blythe and we, the readers, start to wonder if it’s all in her head. The paranoia gets taken up a notch when Blythe’s second child is born, and something terrible happens. And the ending….oh, the ending is just so good.

Rating: 3 baby strollers, 1 hot coffee to go, and the “ree! ree! ree!” sound from Psycho.

(BTW: I also listened to Audrain’s second novel, The Whispers, which came out last spring. I didn’t like it as much as The Push, but it was still very good, and still incentivized me to wipe down the kitchen cabinets.)

Nightcrawling, by Leila Mottley (Knopf)

Hoo boy, this one will punch you right in the heart. Kiara, a Black 17-year-old living in Oakland, is barely scraping by, trying to support herself and her brother (who is too busy pursuing his dreams of rap stardom to get a job), and help care for a young boy next door who was abandoned by his mother. When her rent doubles, Kiara turns to nightcrawling—aka prostitution—to make ends meet. Her main customers are members of the Oakland police force, who, in this book, anyway, are big fans of partying with underage girls. When a major scandal erupts because of this, Kiara ends up being a key witness in the investigation. It’s a heavy read, yes, but a fast and gorgeous one, told in Kiara’s lyrical first-person voice. I listened to the audiobook of this one, and the narrator, Joniece Abbott-Pratt, absolutely killed it.

Rating: One N.W.A. album and one generous donation to a good organization for at-risk youth. (Bridge Over Troubled Waters is an excellent one in Boston.)

The Stranger in the Woods, by Michael Finkel (Vintage)

I remember reading about the subject of this book when it hit the news a few years ago: authorities found and arrested a man named Christopher Knight who had been living alone in the Maine woods in a rudimentary shelter for 27 years. During that time he’d stolen untold quantities of supplies, food, tools, books, etc. from homes in the area. The story brought up endless questions for me: How did he go undetected for so long? How did he survive the winters? And, most of all, why did he choose to live the way he did? The Stranger in the Woods answers these and other questions, to varying extents. If you’re a low-key prepper (me), a lover of the outdoors (me), and/or a fan of reading about people who choose to live unconventional lives (me also), then you’ll dig this one for sure.

Rating: 27 can openers

Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons

This is the cover of the edition I have and it’s really weird and unrelated to the book.

This April, I’m going to be on the faculty of the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop, teaching a class on writing humorous fiction. As I plan the class, I’m reading (and in some cases re-reading) a handful of funny novels. Cold Comfort Farm is one I’ve had on my shelves forever—I think it’s been with me at six different addresses—and that always shows up in Best Funny Fiction / Satire lists, but that I just hadn’t gotten to until now. WELL. My loss, because this is one damned funny book! A peppy young middle class woman from London decides to go live with her kooky, unsophisticated, and mostly miserable farmer cousins after her parents die, and makes it her mission to improve each of their lives.

It was written 1932, but the tone of the humor feels absolutely contemporary—wry and witty, and even meta at times: in the intro, Gibbons explains that she’s put asterisks before the passages that are extra good, to help critics and readers find them. These passages are, in fact, parodies of “good” writing, jam-packed with overwrought descriptions and ridiculous metaphors. I feel like this Stella chick and I would have totally clicked. But I also suspect she was slightly cooler than me, and smoked long cigarettes with one of those holder-thingys.

Rating: Five cows and two long cigarettes with one of those holder-thingys.

If I could put one more book on this list—which I can’t, because nobody ever writes a list of 6 anything—it would be Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabriel Zevin. In fact, I think this was the favorite book I read this year. (Why didn’t I include it in my list of 5? I’m not sure…perhaps because it was and is so popular?) Imagine a cross between The Social Network and Hamilton and Pachinko and you kind of get the jist. I can’t say anything else or I’ll be writing a 6-book list. Just…it’s just so good. One of those big, immersive books that’s perfect for cozy winter reading. I’ll stop now.

Oh, and if you neeed another book recommendation, might I suggest this one? Perfect for anyone who likes social commentary, madcap satire, mother-daughter stories, internet/media scandals, female empowerment, and swans. Or anyone who dislikes swans. Yeah, more that.

Finally: a plug—plea, rather—for buying your gift books at a physical bookstore instead of Bezos, Inc. The holidays are HUGELY important for independent bookstores, and they are lovely places to shop, not just for books but for gifts too. It’s way more satisfying to browse, maybe get a recommendation from an employee, and hand select physical books than it is to hit “order” online. Treat yourself to an hour in a bookstore this December—even if it’s Barnes & Noble. And if you must order online, do it at bookshop.org, where you can buy from the indie of your choice.

Happy reading! And if you’re inclined to comment, what were some of YOUR favorite books of the past year?

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