Jane Roper's Blog, page 5

The other day, our family was headed somewhere in the car and “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen came on the radio. I quite like this song, and most 80s songs about the bygone glories of youth for that matter, and I was in a chipper mood, so I started singing along.

Now here’s the thing about “Glory Days”—and, frankly, countless other pop songs that I’ve heard a bajillion times. While I know most of the lyrics, and while I recognize ALL of them, I cannot sing the entire song flawlessly from start to finish.

Nevertheless. Sing I did. It went a little something like this:

Me:

“I had a friend was a [….] baseball player (missing word: “big”)

Back in high school

He could throw that big ball by you (Actual lyrics: He could throw that speedball by you)

Makin’ love like a fool, yeah (Actual lyrics: Make you look like a fool, boy.)

[….. …… …. …. … ] [incomprehensible] bar (Actual lyrics: Saw him the other night at this roadside bar)

He was walking in, I was walking out (Actual lyrics: I was walking in, he was walking out)

We went back inside [… …. … …. …] drinks (Missing lyrics: sat down, had a few)

But all he kept talking about was

Glory days, well they'll pass you by

Glory days, in the wink of a young girl's eye

Glory days, glory days!

But I didn’t actually get all the way through my amazing performance of the first stanza uninterrupted. I think it was right around “He was walking in, I was walking out” when my beloved (but occasionally slightly grumpy) musician husband said, “If you’re going to sing, at least sing the right words.”

To which I said, triumphantly, “Nope! I don’t have to!”

You see, what my beloved husband did not realize is that several weeks earlier, my daughter Clio and I had declared, after happily singing along to a song we didn’t completely know, that people should not deny themselves the sheer joy of singing along with a song they like just because they don’t know every single word.

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Actually, OK, I may have mostly declared this myself. When I asked Clio yesterday if I could mention her when I write about our declaration on my Substack, she was like “What declaration?” And I said: “Remember? In the car on the way to chorus? Our new rule that it’s OK to sing even if you don’t know all the words?” and she said, “Oh, yeah, sort of…you’re writing about that? It’s not like it was some big thing.”

What. Ever.

I say it it IS a big thing. Because who among us has not felt awkward or downright embarrassed when, after starting to sing a song with great, gleeful gusto, we find ourselves stumbling? Who among us has not silenced ourselves—or let ourselves be silenced by beloved but slightly grumpy partners or children or parents—because we don’t know all the words? And who among us has not felt a little sheepish for only knowing the chorus? Or not being able to keep pace with a super fast song?

Brrah! Brrah! I am Hercules Mulligan! Up in it, lovin’ it, yes I blah blah mah come again! Lock up your daughters and horses ma blah ba ba ba doo four sets of corsets!

My friends, cast off your self-consciousness and get ready to sing your hearts out, because there is a revolution a-comin’, and it starts RIGHT HERE in this Substack post.

Clio and I haven’t formally codified our declaration yet, or submitted it to lawmakers for approval (which I think would be a bipartisan slam dunk). But the basic principles are as follows:

You can sing along with whatever damned song you want, provided you know the melody and can more or less carry a tune, and provided you are in a setting where singing is appropriate and OK with those in your immediate vicinity.

Stumbling, messing up, not being able to keep up, starting the wrong verse, and/or leaving out words is nothing to be ashamed of. Because does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things, whether you get the order of players / haters / heartbreakers (or bakers, if you prefer; I do) / fakers right in the refrain of “Shake it Off”? No it does not, my friend. This goes double if you are singing it at a concert you paid $2,000 to attend.

If you don’t know (or forget) the words to a particular part of the song, it is perfectly acceptable to hum or ba-ba-ba or make up your own words during those parts. And if some singalong purist challenges you on this, you just tell them you’re simply paying homage to Ella Fitzgerald’s legendary 1960 performance of “Mack the Knife” in Berlin, where she forgot the words and improvised with a combination of her own made-up lyrics, brilliant scat, and a fabulous Louis Armstrong impression, and which was widely considered one of the best performances of her storied career. Boom.

Singing words that you know can’t possibly be right, but that’s what they sound like, is totally fine. For example, if you don’t know Springsteen is singing “Tenth avenue freeze out,” and you think it sounds more like “Devil in the freeze aisle” —which you know makes no sense, though you sort of enjoy picturing Satan in the frozen foods section of the grocery store—you are free to go ahead and sing “Devil in the freeze aisle” to your heart’s content anyway, because really, it’s Springsteen’s fault for not enunciating.

Unintentionally singing the wrong words is also 100% acceptable and should not be a source of shame or embarrassment. Again, it’s the singer’s fault for not enunciating and/or for writing weird lyrics, e.g. “Revved up like a deuce another runner in the night.” (SPRINGSTEEN AGAIN!) If you want to sing “Wrapped up like a douche in the middle of the night,” that is your goddamned right as a red-blooded, Bruce Springsteen-loving American. Or anyone else, for that matter.

These rules apply to ALL songs and artists, not just Taylor Swift and The Boss.

If you only know one word or phrase of a song, you may, freely and joyfully, just sing that part. You do not need to stay quiet just because you don’t know the whole song, because you’re worried some douche in the middle of the night will think you’re not a “true fan” or whatever. You want to hum / bob your head / stay silent for most of the song and then sing out one key phrase, such as “Little red corvette!” or “Pour some sugar on me!” or “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it!” then you go right ahead and do that.

If “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime” comes on, you may not sing any part of it. You walk straight over to that radio or Bluetooth speaker or sound system behind the counter at Old Navy and turn that thing the fuck off. Then you say a prayer for Paul McCartney’s soul, because with that one song he may well have squandered the ticket to heaven he earned for writing “Let It Be,” dooming himself to spend eternity in the freeze aisle.

And there you have it, dear reader. The best new rule(s) ever. Because singing is a pleasure that should not be denied to any of us just because we can’t get all the lyrics right. And so I say to all people, everywhere—in every car, every gym, every club and wedding and bar mitzvah and holiday party and retail store—if you want to sing out, sing out. And if you want to be tea, be tea.

Sometimes my grumpy musician husband lets me sing harmony with him.

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 go to a Springsteen concert sometime.

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P.S. Here’s the fun news about my book: I’m delighted to announce that my novel The Society of Shame has been optioned for development into a TV series!

What does this mean? This means that a studio (I’m not allowed to say which) has reserved the rights to my book for 18 months, during which time they’re going to try to find a writer/showrunner who will work on the project, and then pitch it to various streaming services in hopes of getting it greenlit for production. BUT: before you start sending me your casting picks, know that vast majority of optioned projects never actually get produced. So most likely, nothing will happen. Still, you gotta celebrate every win, right? And ok, fine, give me your casting picks. Not that I have any power whatsoever in this or any other arena should the series ever get made—as I told my children when they asked if they could be extras—but hey, it’s fun!

Ahh, Halloween.

I’m a big fan of this particular holiday. Not just because I love candy corn (YES, Fight me), but also because I love Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, Butterfinger, Baby Ruth, Almond Joy, and Milk Duds. And Halloween is basically the only time I eat these things. Could I walk into literally any grocery store, drug store, or convenience store in America at any time of year and buy and consume these things? Sure. But would I? No, never. Especially the Milk Duds. (BTW, children: I know you don’t read my Substack, but know that I am coming for your Milk Duds, and always have, when you weren’t looking. And all the other things too. Bwah ha ha!)

It’s also a holiday that makes me super nostalgic. Partly because of the usual stuff: fond childhood memories of costumes, carving pumpkins, bobbing for apples, and having to go to a stupid Halloween party at your elementary school instead of trick or treating during the great cyanide and razor blades scare of ‘82. (Related: biting into a candy bar after trick or treating the following year and thinking it was laced with cyanide, running to your parents in a panic, and having them calmly tell you that, no, Clark Bars are just powdery like that, and also, if it were cyanide you’d already be dead.)

But the other reason Halloween hits me in the heart is that it was my late father’s birthday. The holiday is inextricably linked with with him in my mind, and always will be.

It was fun having a dad with a Halloween birthday when I was growing up. There were often family friends and relatives over on Halloween to celebrate his birthday (often along with my grandmother’s, which was November 1) and ooh and ahh over my brother’s and my costumes. So the night always had an extra festive, cozy feel.

As a teenager and as an adult, I loved picking out a birthday card for my father every October—the punnier and Dad-jokier the better. If I couldn’t find an actual Halloween Birthday card (they do exist!) then I’d buy a Halloween card and customize it. (Aside: Who sends Halloween cards? Weird.)

My father died almost four years ago. But when this time of year rolls around, the thought still inevitably pops into my mind, often more than once, that I need to get him a card. And then I feel a little wave of sadness when I remember that, actually, no, I don’t. And then I miss him.

Sort of.

Because—(Warning! Major tonal shift ahead!)—while I do have occasional pangs of grief about my dad being gone, especially around the holidays, I feel an equal and opposite sense of relief.

It’s a weird, bifurcated way of experiencing loss. But my father was a weird, birfurcated man.

I loved him, but he could also be toxic as fuck. I’ve hinted at this in past posts; revealed it in dribs and drabs. I probably won’t ever go into great detail about it here on my Substack, because this medium feels too exposed. And also because the topic is too complex and layered for short form. I’ll probably write a book about it someday.

But for now, I will share this: my father was abused by his father as a child. And as is so often the case with survivors of abuse, he abused others in turn. Mostly it was verbal, but in some cases it was physical, or physical by proxy (i.e. throwing and smashing things). He was deeply insecure, and flew into rages when he felt threatened or “bullied,” as he would put it (a psychologically healthy person might call it “disagreed with”). Over the course of his lifetime he detonated more of his relationships than even he could probably count.

These behaviors were, thank god, not as frequent or prominent in my childhood. I think he worked very hard to keep them out of my brother’s and my view, both to protect us and also, I think, to protect the image we had of him.

But his worst tendencies seemed to worsen as he got older. And in the last two years of his life, when his health was failing, they got even worse. He was terrified of death, I suspect (though he wouldn’t admit it) and it was always when he felt fear—when he felt threatened or undermined or “invalidated” (another one of his favorite words)—that he lashed out.

If you are someone who knew my father in a casual way, all of this may come as quite a surprise to you. (I’m sorry. I guess?)

Because here’s the thing: my father could be a goddamned delight. He was charming and playful and generous and funny. He was infectiously enthusiastic, and (usually) great with kids. He was insightful about the workings of the world, and was knowledgeable about a great many things. Sure, he tended to dominate conversations and grandstand. He could be pedantic. But he could also make you feel like you were the most amazing person in the world. He could make you feel beloved.

He did it for me, a million times over. He also broke my heart many times over, especially over the course of the last twenty years of his life.

Having my father in my adult life, and in the life of my children and husband in particular, was messy and complicated and unpredictable and infuriating. It was tiring. It was stressful. It was a minefield. And still, sometimes, it was fine. Even good.

Oy. I’ve said more here than I planned to say. And yet there’s so much more I could say. But I think it’s time to stop, and maybe go hunt down some Milk Duds.

I’ll just end end with this:

I loved my father.

I deeply miss the person he was to me—and the person I thought he was—when I was a child.

I miss buying him a birthday card at Halloween.

And a lot of the time, I don’t miss him at all.

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.

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P.S. On a lighter but possibly more controversial note: Here’s a post from last Halloween about my issue with Salem vis a vis witches—specifically the fact that there WEREN’T ANY, so why is it all witches, all the time up there? Harumph.

P.P.S. And now back to our regularly scheduled self promotion:

I actually have no problem with the French as a people, except for the fact that they are partial to shower doors that only cover half of the shower, which I do not understand.

I do, however, have a problem with MY French. Specifically, my inability to speak it at the level I wish I could, and the pitfalls of being able to speak it as well as I already do.

But let me back up: I just spent two weeks in France! I spent the first nine days with my mom, visiting Paris, the Loire Valley, and Mont St. Michel—a long dreamed of mother/daughter adventure. Then I spent four days alone at an AirBnB in a delightful little town near Versailles called Bièvres, where I worked on my (new) novel, visited local points of interest, and ate untold quantities of baguette, chèvre, and pastries.

Speaking of food: while in France I fell in love with a salad green called mâche that I’ve never encountered anywhere in the US. It has a clover/alfalfa-ish taste to it, and is supremely tender and crunchy. I kind of want to bring it to the US, plant giant fields of it, and become a mâche magnate. Alas, I know nothing about farming.

My adorable AirBnB in Bièvres The Museum of Tools! If you ever find yourself in Bièvres, I highly recommend a visit. This guy, President of the Friends of the Tool, will give you an amazing tour. Bièvres celebrates Pinktober! Walking back to myAirBnB from the centre ville with a raspberry tartlette.

One of the best parts of the trip, by far, however, was having the opportunity to torture innocent French people with my French.

Not severely torture them, mind you. My French is quite decent. I studied it from 6-12th grade and during a semester abroad in Cameroon during college. I’d been to France three times before this last trip, so I’ve had the chance to practice here and there.

Over the past six months, I’ve been brushing up by listening to French podcasts, reviewing grammar and vocabulary, reading in French, and watching a French show on Netflix called Plan Coeur (called The Hookup Plan in English). (It’s a little silly, but I recommend watching it if for no other reason than to witness the adorable charm of Zita Hanrot, the sublime hotness of Marc Ruchmann, and the chemistry between them.)

But despite my best French learning efforts, because I just don’t have many opportunities to use the language, I remain on a frustrating plateau of intermediate-ness. A high B1, according to the Common European Framework. Maybe a low B2 after a couple of glasses of wine.

And there’s another problem: My pronunciation is really good.

Why is this a problem, you ask? Because it tends to write checks I just can’t cash. Allow me to illustrate.

Here is what often happens when I speak French to native speakers:

I start with a simple but gorgeously pronounced question or statement that maybe I’ve pre-planned a little bit in my mind. For example, I might say to a supermarket employee, “Hello, Madame, excuse me, I’m looking for mâche, but I don’t see any. Could you help me find it?” (But in French. Obv.)

At this point in the scenario, the employee probably thinks: this person, while not a native speaker, must nevertheless speak fluent (or close to it) French, because those R’s in the back of her throat are quite good! Maybe she lives in France, or visits frequently. And she’s definitely not American, because she knows about mâche, which Europe has been keeping a secret from the United States for centuries. Hon-hon-hon!

So, the employee says—in natural, full-speed French—something along the lines of “The mâche is over there, Madame, right between the man in the beret and the blue and white striped shirt and the woman feeding a croissant to her poodle.” And maybe I miss a word or two. Maybe I think she said “the woman whose poodle looks like a croissant,” but I definitely catch the vast majority of it.

“Oh, yes,” I say, feeling terribly proud of my oral comprehension. “I see it. Thanks so much.”

But then I decided to push it. (Because this is going so well! I practically AM fluent!!) I get chatty. And I end up saying something that translates literally to: “I must tell you, I love some mâche. I have never tried it before five days ago. We don’t have it inside the United States, where I inhabit. I think perhaps I would like to carry it to America, make big fields, and become a mâche…euhhhh…” (I do not know the word for “magnate” so I try to come up with a substitute)… “queen! Therefore to become very rich, because of mâche. A salad regime!”

By now the supermarket employee has probably determined that maybe I’m not as fluent as she thought, and/or I am slightly crazy. But again: Those nice, throaty R’s! The confidence! The mâche!

And so she replies, Frenchly, “You don’t have mâche in the United States? That’s so strange; I would have assumed it’s available there. You can find it everywhere in Europe, as far as I know. It’s very popular. In fact, there is a huge mâche festival every August in Lyons that’s been happening since the seventies. I went once or twice when I was young. I remember they built a replica of the Eiffel Tower, and the local children decorated it with sprigs of mâche. A little crazy, but fun. So, what about arugula? Is that available in America?”

But what I hear is: “You don’t have mâche in the United States? That’s so foreign. blahblahblah everywhere. Find blah blah Europe blah I know. Popular, in fact, blahblah festival every August in Leo blah blah blah since [some decade in the 20th century]. I went one or two times blah young. Blah blah. I remember they built blah blah Eiffel Tower blah children with mâche blah blah. A little crazy but amusing. And the Rockettes. Is blah blah America?”

Now I’m panicking, trying to weave all this together in my brain, but I’m pretty sure I get what she’s saying, and I’m quite sure she asked a question at the end. And I think it has to do with a children’s mâche festival that involves the Eiffel Tower and the Rockettes (Who knew?). So I say, “No, we don’t have that in America! But I wish we would have it! It [random Spanish verb] super cool! Well, thank you, always, for the information about the location of the mâche. Good bye!”

“Good bye,” she says. In English.

Two minutes later, I am standing in front of the mâche, and nearby I see bags of what is clearly arugula, labeled Roquette. And I now realize that what the employee had actually asked me was whether we had arugula in the US.

I feel great shame, for myself and for my country.

Then I go buy a bottle of wine, a baguette, and six kinds of cheese.

Alors.

But someday, my friends. SOMEDAY I will get off the intermediate plateau and kick it up to the next level. I will be able to follow not just 75% of what French speakers are saying, but 99%. And someday, so help me god, I will be the mâche queen of America.

And when I am queen, I shall buy this chateau.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription so I can hire a French tutor. Or, hey, maybe buy my book!

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P.S. I *know* one of you is going to tell me that one can, in fact, get mâche (aka “corn salad”) in the United States, and that, actually, you’ve been eating it since the nineties. Fine. Tell me.

P.P.S. While I don’t have any events for The Society of Shame planned in the immediate future, I am very excited to be in conversation with Virginia Pye about her wonderful new novel, The Literary Undoing of Victoria Swann on November 1 at 7 pm at the Odyssey Bookstore in South Hadley, Mass. I’d love to see you there!

P.P.P.S. I’ve got some exciting news I’ll be sharing soon about The Society of Shame. Stay tuned!!

Meanwhile, back in Montparnasse cemetery….

Waiting. And waiting. And waiting. I don’t think he’s coming.

If you’ve been reading here for a while, you know that a couple of years back, I decided to undertake the classic peak bagger quest to hike all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4000+ foot peaks. I’d already hiked about a dozen of them when I started keeping count. Since then, I’ve been a hiking fool, driving up to New Hampshire on the regular, sometimes alone, sometimes with pals; sometimes bagging a single 4k peak, sometimes stringing several together. The record was 6 peaks over the course of a two-day hike. I’ve hiked in every season, in temperatures ranging from 6 to 86.

And a week ago, I’m proud to say, I reached my goal: All 48 peaks are now in the books. Woot!

Atop Mount Isolation, looking out at Mount Washington

I paired a first with my last, spending my first solo overnight in the woods after reaching the summit of Mount Isolation. It wasn’t nearly as scary as I feared—in fact, it was blissfully peaceful—except when I was woken up by rain plapping on my tent at 5 am and was, for several seconds, convinced it was a axe murderer or a bear. Or an axe-wielding bear. Fortunately it was none of these.

Just so we’re clear, the wilderness starts *after* the sign.

I’ve seen a lot of things over the course of my many, many hikes: sweeping views, Tolkienesque terrain, moss-carpeted forests, and frozen waterfalls. I’ve seen moose poop, pine marten (I think?) poop, bear poop, and human poop. (Once. It was terrible.) I’ve seen gray jays (one of which landed on my hand, then stole my Cliff Bar), pileated woodpeckers, glacier erratics, rime-frosted trees, and mushrooms of unusual size.

(Not actually that unusual in size. Just cool looking.)

And I’ve seen hikers. A LOT of hikers.

The number of people heading for the hills grew exponentially during the pandemic, and some of the most popular trails were downright crowded at times. You see people of all shapes and sizes and sensibilities when you’re hiking in the Whites. But there are certain types of hikers that you see again and again. I give them to you here.

The troupe of earnest, fresh-faced teen boys. Maybe they’re boy scouts. Maybe they’re a summer camp group. Maybe they’re time travelers from the 1950s. I don’t know. All I know is they are very focused, and they tend to be very polite. When you step aside and let them pass, you may get eight or nine “thank you”s in a row.

The middle-aged guy with the hot, much younger girlfriend. Oh boy. This guy. Probably wearing wraparound sunglasses. Frequently finds excuses to take off his shirt. Can be overheard saying things like “careful, watch your step,” and “It’s nice, but it’s nothing compared to the Dolomites.”

The happy bearded dude. Or un-bearded. (But usually bearded). Consider yourself lucky if you run into one of these peppy fellas on the trail because they will take your mood up to an eleven in seconds flat—even when you’re in the midst of slogging up a rock-strewn, 45-degree slope. The happy bearded due radiates joy and positivitity. He is just so psyched to be hiking! He says stuff like “What a beautiful day, huh?” and “Have a GREAT hike!” God bless you, happy bearded dude.

The trail running girl. This is the lithe young woman who, while you’re in the midst of slogging up a rock-strewn, 45-degree slope in your frumpy zip-off hiking pants and wicking t-shirt, zips past you in teeny shorts and a sports bra, fucking RUNNING up the trail. (Or down, because she got up at 4 am and has already summited and is on her way home). There’s a male variety of this “hiker” too. Sometimes they say the kind of upbeat things the happy bearded dude says, but instead of feeling blessed, you just kind of want to trip them with your trekking pole. (Related: The 6-year old who is rocketing past you up the trail without even breaking a sweat. You sort of want to trip them too?)

Those two dudes who are clearly high. Like happy bearded guy, but slower.

The through hiker(s). These are people hiking the Appalachian Trail, which zigzags its way through the White Mountains. You’ll know them by the black and white AT tag on their packs, their world-weary expressions, and, sometimes, their sort of horsey, musty smell. You can also often identify them by their clothing, which frequently doesn’t look like your typical hiking gear. These people, if they’re northbounders, have already hiked more than 1500 miles. The woods is basically their home at this point, and they wear whatever the hell they want. So, if you see someone with a 60-liter pack, unwashed hair, and calves of steel, but they’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a pith helmet, pajama bottoms, and/or a tutu, it’s safe to say they’re a through-hiker.

The “Don’t worry, she’s friendly!” Aka the person whose off-leash dog comes bounding up the trail at you out of nowhere, startling the crap out of you, because for several seconds you think she’s a miniature axe-wielding bear.

The Québéquois. There are a lot of these in the Whites, though I think they don’t want us to know. They can be tricky to spot (unless, of course, they’re speaking loudly in French — but they never do this). Generally speaking, if you say hello to someone, and they answer in a sort of very quiet, muffled “hi” or just nod and give you a microscopic smile, they’re probably from Québec. Also, if they’re eating poutine.

The guy peeing behind a tree. We can all see you, you know. The tree isn’t *that* big.

The “how much farther is it?” These folks, clearly exhausted and dispirited who ask you how close a summit or trail junction is, might as well be asking “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” because “how much farther?” is impossible to answer. For me, anyway. I have almost no sense of time when I’m hiking. Was I at the summit five minutes ago? Twenty? Ninety? I have no idea. Go ask the 54-year-old bare-chested guy with the 27-year-old girlfriend. I’m guessing he’ll tell you with 100% certainty.

The dummies. Cotton t-shirts. Sneakers and/or flip flops. 16 oz bottle of Poland Spring in hand. No backpacks. It’s already 3 pm, and they’re heading up the mountain. “Is it, like, all like this?” they ask, huffing and puffing, as you trot past them down the 45-degree, rock-strewn trail, appropriately dressed and carrying a pack with all the stuff you should *actually* be carrying on a serious hike in the Whites (rain gear, lots of water, snacks, matches, a knife, paper map, headlamp, warm hat, first aid kit, etc. etc.) Yes, yes it is. Good luck. See you on the New Hampshire Fish and Wildlife Department Facebook Page with the report of how they carried your dehydrated / hypothermic asses down in the dark.

The ecstatic suburban women in their late forties. They left their teenagers and husbands at home, and they are living their best lives. They look like they just raided an REI. They are snort-laughing, making references to 80s movies, and talking about reels they saw on Instagram, and how no, they are not going to start using TikTok, because enough already, and God, they wish their kids would spend less time online and more time reading. (Insert possible side convo here about how they all read the Flowers in the Attic series when they were wayyy too young, and how fucked up were those books???) They offer each other sunblock, bug repellent and dried fruit repeatedly. You might hear them complaining about how they’re gaining weight around the middle and starting to get jowls, followed by “but whatever, who gives a fuck. We’re in the woods!”

Wait. This is me. I am one of these women.

So, what’s next? Well. I don’t have plans to do any other lists. But I do plan to keep hiking, and hiking, and hiking. Maybe I’ll see you out there sometime.

The post-hike meal is a major part of the pleasure. In this case, everything bagel with chive cream cheese and smoked salmon, plus a very large latte.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription so I can buy the really premium trail mix. Or, hey, even better, buy my book!

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This time of year—back to school, back to the routine, on the cusp of Fall—Charlotte’s Web is often on my mind.

I suppose it’s slightly odd that I love Charlotte’s Web so much, given my complicated feelings about spiders. If you ever happen to ask me how I feel about them (as one does), I will say that I don’t particularly like spiders—especially hairy ones, which can go fuck themselves—but I do respect them.

They really are remarkable creatures: the webs, the dexterity, the mad hunting skills, the silk balloons they spin to take flight. One of my favorite activities at Sandy Island, the YMCA family camp on Lake Winnipesaukee we go to at the tail end of every August, is spider watching. (This is not an official, organized activity, mind you; it’s just a thing I do.)

The best place for this is the mini-lavs, where spiders set up camp in the upper corners and prey on the bugs that squeeze in through the gaps over the doors or holes in the high screen windows, attracted by the light. Believe me, you haven’t lived until you’ve watched a spider sprinting toward a bug just caught in her web, stunning it into submission, and expertly rolling it into little white spider cigar, all while brushing your teeth.

Well, maybe you have.

You also see lots of spider egg sacs up in the crooks and corners of the lavs and other buildings and porches on the island. And slow, tired spiders, who seem like they’ve seen better days. Some newly dead spiders, too.

If you’ve read Charlotte’s Web, none of this will come as a suprise to you. In that book we learn, along with Wilbur the terrific / radiant / humble pig, that as Fall approaches, common orb weaving spiders like Charlotte, and like my spider pals in New Hampshire, lay their eggs. Not long after that, they die. One life ends and hundreds of new ones begin. Every year, the cycle repeats.

And every year, our (non-spider) family goes back to Sandy Island, and does the same things, sees the same people. Every year, we come back home on Labor Day weekend, to the start of a new year. (Yes, September is the new year. January is a sham.) The kids go back to school. I refocus on my work and routine. We relish the sunny days and cool nights. We slaughter the pigs.

But every year, the kids are a little older, and so are we—a reminder that life isn’t a really a carousel of time, but a corkscrew. We come back around, but never to the exact same place. That fact is never as achingly apparent as when the back to school and off to college photos fill your social media feeds.

There’s a melancholy to this time of year, a sense of impending loss. But it makes you appreciate the pleasures of the season—of everything—that much more. I think this is why so many people, myself included, consider Fall their favorite season.

The dying leaves are breathtaking.

Death!!

Which brings me back to Charlotte’s Web.

If you only read the book as a child, you might still be under the impression that it’s just a charming children’s story about a girl and a pig and a spider who can, for some reason, read.

I mean, it is that. But, as I discovered when I read it to my own children nine or ten years ago, it’s also about the cyclical nature of life. It’s about birth and death and love and loss. It’s about anticipating and remembering. It’s about growing up.

At the beginning of the story, Fern, the little girl who convinces her father not to kill Wilbur, the runt of the new pig litter, is enthralled by the animals of the farm. By the end of the book, she’s more interested in a boy.

Near the beginning of the book, Wilbur learns that he’s destined for the slaughterhouse. Charlotte saves his life, but in doing so hastens her own death. Wilbur will never be eaten, thanks to his new celebrity status, but he will, of course, die eventually.

In the meantime, though, there are Charlotte’s children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, some of whom fly away on their little spider balloons, and some of whom stay in the barn and chat with Wilbur and the other animals. There are goslings and lambs and calves each spring. And although Wilbur may not live to see it, Fern will probably one day have children, too. The cycle continues.

All this, and the prose itself is just gorgeous.

Seriously, get your hands on a copy and read it. Read it to yourself or read it aloud to your children or partner or elderly parent. Read it now, during this season of simultaneous beginning and ending, when the circles are so keenly apparent. (I have no way of knowing for sure, but I have a feeling E.B. White loved the heck out of Fall.)

And if you’re not convinced yet, here, read this, from the very end of the book:

Life in the barn was very good—night and day, winter and summer, spring and fall, dull days and bright days. It was the best place to be, thought Wilbur, this warm delicious cellar, with the garrulous geese, the changing seasons, the heat of the sun, the passage of swallows, the nearness of rats, the sameness of sheep, the love of spiders, the smell of manure, and the glory of everything.

See?

Happy September, and thanks as always for reading.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my strange brand of Substacking, and/or if you have complex feelings about spiders, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. Or, hey, maybe buy my book!

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When people ask me why I wrote The Society of Shame, I’ve got a few different answers, because there are a few different reasons. But my favorite is: “I was getting over a bad breakup”—pause for effect—“with another book.”

As some of you long-time readers may recall (I love you, long-time readers!) before I wrote The Society of Shame, I spent nearly five years writing a novel called Grateful. It was the story of an impoverished single mom whose four-year-old daughter is diagnosed with leukemia,* and her increasingly complicated relationship with the yuppie mother across the street who befriends her and makes her and her daughter her “cause.”

(*My daughter Clio had leukemia when she was 5. She’s 16 now, and healthy as can be.)

Alas, in spite of this INCREDIBLY cheery subject matter, my agent was unable to sell the book.

I was gutted. And angry. And then I got an idea for a new book—a very, very different kind of book, with a completely different voice and tone. My reinvention book. My rebound book. My meaningless sex book. My “what have I got to lose?” book. That book was The Society of Shame. And then, whaddya know. It actually got published.

My “No, really, I really am an author, see?” picture (taken by my mother, naturally) at Sherman’s bookstore in Freeport, Maine.

It’s been amazing, having The S.o.S. out the world, and seeing it in bookstores around the country (and Canada! Also Canada!) in the pictures friends send me. I’ve been loving doing events and book club visits and interviews and all the rest.

But I’ve also been itching to get back into the writing part of being a writer. I don’t feel quite right—quite me—when I’m not working on a book. Even though I can actually only spend an hour or two writing most days (if that), due to the demands of work and family, having that big project in the background anchors and centers me in a way nothing else can.

I’m happy to say that I’ve got an idea for a new novel that’s been marinating for quite some time, and over the past couple of months I’ve finally started to buckle down and work on it in earnest. But I gotta say: I’m finding it a lot harder to get back into the groove this time than last.

First of all, I’m not coming off the heels of heartbreak, fancying myself a phoenix rising from the ashes, with “Gonna Fly Now” playing the background of a thrilling progress montage. (Jane at desk. Jane staring out window. Jane drinking coffee. Jane getting feedback from writing group. Jane in her favorite chair. Jane drinking wine and shoveling Wheat Thins into her mouth. Jane staring at her screen. Jane punching giant slabs of raw meat. Etc.)

Second of all: Gah! Performance anxiety! It’s not like The Society of Shame has been a bestseller or won any awards or anything. But it has reached a much wider audience than anything else I’ve written, and some of those new readers might be interested in picking up the next book I write. But…what if they don’t think it’s as good? What if reviewers don’t think it’s as good? Hell, what if my publisher doesn’t think it’s as good and, therefore, doesn’t want to publish it? Or, what if they think it’s just good enough, and publish it, and it totally flops, and then nobody will publish anything I write ever again after that? WHAT IF WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE?? (Note: we are all going to die.)

I know that I need to just push these anxieties aside and soldier on. But it’s easier said than done.

Third of all—and this is something many novelists will tell you—in many ways, every time you start a new book, you feel like you’re a rank beginner again. You’ve totally forgotten how to do it. You’re sitting there at your desk or in your chair, maybe shoveling Wheat Thins into your mouth, thinking: What is a scene, again? How do I get characters from point A to point B? Am I using too many flashbacks? What is semicolon? How dialogue? Where book start? Why doing this? Am total fraud!

(I don’t know why you’re talking like that, but apparently you are.)

Sadly, there is no step-by-step formula for writing a novel; no well-trodden path to follow. (One of my favorite quotes about writing is something W. Somerset Maugham allegedly said: “There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, nobody knows what they are.”) All I can do is jump in and start flailing around in the waters of the blank page, having faith that I will eventually figure out what the hell I’m doing; that ultimately I will have a first draft done, and from there I can shape it into something resembling an actual, bonafide novel. One that will maybe even be good.

But I’m a loooooooong way from that shore.

The good news? When I do manage to stop overthinking and worrying and just let myself be carried by the current of the book’s narrative voice, I actually have quite a lot of fun. And following the fun is key to any useful progress when it comes to my writing—as writing The Society of Shame showed me. (And as my friend Cathy, over at my favorite writing Substack, Hibou, recently reminded me. Writers: read her Substack!)

So. Onward and upward I go.

They’re not just metaphorical ladders. They’re REAL freaking ladders from my most recent hike: Mt. Willey. (My penultimate hike in my quest to hike all 48 of New Hampshire’s 4,000-footers!) Turns out hiking is actually an important part of my writing process. I get a ton of good thinking and plotting done while I’m huffing and puffing up those peaks by myself. Cue “Gonna Fly Now.”

Look, I know this hasn’t been a terribly cheeky or hilarious post. But it’s me working through my shit, man. And sometimes it’s just what I gotta use this space for.

If you like reading my blatherings about writing, here are a few other posts of mine you might enjoy checking out:

The good news edition (about the role of luck in publishing)

If you always do what you’ve always done… (about how/why I decided to write The Society of Shame, starring my alter ego, Janette)

Lighten up Francis (about having fun while writing)

Morning writing is magic (about why I drag my ass out of bed when I’d rather not)

In-Between Pantsing & Plotting (actually a podcast episode on the fantastic, star-studded 7 am Novelist series, where I talk with author and host Michelle Hoover about my “process” and I use that word lightly.)

But if you don’t like that sort of thing, well, here’s a quiz about grocery shopping that people seem to enjoy.

Thank you as always for reading.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you like this weird-ass newsletter, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

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P.S. I’m thrilled to share the news that there’s officially going to be a paperback edition of The Society of Shame! It will be out on March 12, and you can pre-order it now.

P.P.S. If you read and enjoyed my book, I’d be forever indebted if you would leave a quick rating or review on Goodreads or Amazon. Unfortunately, you must rate in stars, not negative zebras or vicodin. (If you know, you know.) Thank you!

My reading life these days is….weird.

I used to be a strict one-book-at-a-time kind of gal, but now I’m all the hell over the place. Today’s multichannel publishing landscape (haha that sounds like something I’d write for one of my corporate clients) is largely to blame.

At any given time, I’ve got one book on my Kindle, accessible on my phone in case I find myself with unexpected time to kill. I almost always have an audiobook in progress, which I’ll listen to while driving, running, walking, or cleaning the bathroom. Then there’s whatever I happen to be reading in hardcover or paperback, which these days is often two or three things at once.

Meanwhile, I feel like there’s a firehose of books coming at me these days: books of friends / acquaintances, books thrown my way by my publisher, books that friends thrust lovingly into my hands because I have to read them, books I didn’t plan to buy that wink at me from the “New Fiction” tables at bookstores, and, of course, the many, many unread books on my shelves.

As a result of all this, I am frequently stymied by indecision. I have trouble with commitment, and often put books down after a couple of chapters because it just doesn’t “feel right” at the time, or because I feel like I really should get to that other book I’ve been meaning to read instead.

It’s not you, book, I would say, were I in the habit of talking to books. It’s me.

I wish I could take credit for this meme, but I cannot.

But this is a silly problem, and I need to get over it. There is no wrong thing to read, and having unread books on one’s shelves is not a sin. I will never have time to read all the books I want to, and I should accept that, rather than letting it stress me out. Right? Right. Deep breaths.

Anyway. To change things up around here, I thought I’d share a few of the most recent reads/listens from my messy reading life, in no particular order, very carefully and accurately rated.

The Guest by Emma Cline

This was one of those buzzy new novels that, when I heard about it, I thought: Oh yeah, baby, I’m coming for you with my next Audible credit. It’s about a young sex worker, Alex, who finds herself suddenly sugar-daddy-less, moneyless, and essentially homeless. With little other choice, she drifts through the moneyed world of the Hamptons, using her looks and whiteness (this isn’t explicitly discussed in the book, but it’s very much true) to slip into various families and homes and groups of friends, subtly conning people into thinking they know her, or that she knows someone they do. It’s sad and suspenseful and strangely mesmerizing, and you’re constantly wondering how and when Alex’s cover is going to be blown, while also hoping that somehow she’s going to land on her feet.

Rating: I hate book ratings. HATE them. And I swear I’m not saying that just because I am an author, and my work is subject to them, and they actually affect how many books I sell. It’s just deeply weird to me, and always has been, to reduce art and entertainment to rubrics. What am I rating, exactly, when I rate a book? How moved I felt? How much I laughed? How fast I turned pages? In what universe does it make sense to use the same rating scale to evaluate The Great Gatsby and Gone Girl and Knitting for Dummies?

But, fine, if I must rate The Guest, I give it six pairs of designer sunglasses, a charcuterie board, and a Vicodin.

Sucker by Daniel Hornsby

Daniel Hornsby is a fellow Vintage/Anchor author, and he has the same (fabulous) editor as I do, Anna Kauffman. So, obviously I had to read this, because I know what great taste Anna has. (Heh heh.) Also, it sounded right up my alley: a satire of Silicon Valley and the one percent, with a little horror/mystery in the mix for good measure. If you don’t like voice-y fiction, this may not be your thing; the story is filtered through a first-person narrator with a wry, hipsterly bent who tosses around lots of cultural and musical references. I think 25-year-old me might have rolled my eyes. But 49-year-old me found it a lot of fun. And how can you not appreciate a narrator who likens zebras (his billionaire father’s loathesome pet of choice) to alcoholic penguins? If you appreciate a good skewering of capitalism, you are fascinated and repelled by the Elizabeth Holmes story, and you kinda sometimes wish you were a vampire, check this one out.

Rating: Negative four zebras

My Murder by Katie Williams

This was a perfect-for-audiobook novel—thriller-ish and fast-moving, with an intelligent, darkly comic tone. Bonus: I really liked how the audiobook narrator said the word “murder.” A sort of languid, old-timey MEUHRR-dur. Which is ironic since it’s not an old-timey book at all; rather, it’s set in an undefined but not-too-distant future. The protagonist, Lou, and five other women, all of them MEUHRR-der victims, are brought back to life—sort of. As Lou adjusts to her return to her her job, her marriage, her baby daughter, she starts to suspect that things aren’t quite what they seem. Bum, bum, BUM!!! If there was a movie adaptation of this book and one of Sucker, they’d make an excellent double feature. Instead of Barbenheimer, we could call it SEUUHHcker.

Rating: π r2

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky

Look, don’t be impressed, really. Because I don’t know if I’m ever going to get through this puppy. It’s 960 pages long, and it takes me about an hour to read ten pages, because I have to keep stopping to check the endnotes (if there’s an endnote in a book, I feel duty-bound to read it) and/or backing up to make sure that, wait, which one is Miusov? Is Dmitry the same person as Mitya? Which Fyodor are we talking about? I do love the prose and the arch humor and the razor sharp characterization. But reading it definitely feels like work. And the fact that it does makes me sad.

When I was in college, and in my twenties, I read a lot more classics, and was able to feel fully absorbed and invested in them—even the big, dense, nineteenth-century ones. I had more time and fewer responsibilities, yes, but I also think my brain was less fragmented by the internet and information overload. I’m reading Karamazov in part because I want to prove to myself that I still can read Big Fat (or not so fat) Classics. And also, because I miss the sense of hunger and wonder and freedom I had back in the days when I read Anna Karenina during my lunch break at my first job or Middlemarch at a cafe in Quito or East of Eden on the fire escape of my first apartment on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

Goddammit.

Rating: A Solo cup of cheap shiraz, a knockoff Rachel haircut, and a two-hour breakfast at a diner in Somerville, pre-total-gentrification .

Lost & Found by Kathryn Schulz

I appreciate having a book I can dip in and out of when the mood strikes (although, admittedly, it adds to the chaos of my reading life), and this wise yet humble meditation on love and loss and the inextricably linked nature of the two was exactly that. Schulz writes about two events that happened in close proximity in her life: losing her father and meeting the woman she would marry. Again and again as I read, I found myself nodding and thinking (wistfully) “Oh, yes, that’s exactly it, isn’t it?” or, in one case, writing “YES!” on the page. I mean, look at this:

“….these last few years, I have been even more susceptible than usual to emotion—or, rather, to one emotion in particular. As far as I know, it has no name in our language, although it is close to what the Portuguese call saudade and the Japanese call mono no aware. It is the feeling of registering, on the basis of some slight exposure, our existential condition: how lovely life is, and how fragile, and how fleeting. Although this feeling is partly a response to our place in the universe, it is not quite the same as awe, because it has too much of the everyday of it, and too much sorrow, too. For the same reason, it is also not the feeling the Romantics identified as the sublime—a mingling of admiration and dread, evoked by the vast impersonal grandeur of the physical world. This feeling I am talking about has none of that splendor or terror in it. It is made up, instead, of gratitude, longing, and a note I can only call anticipatory grief.”

RIGHT??

Rating: Oh, shut up.

I feel like at this point I should say something like “what have you read lately that you liked? Share in the comments!” I am nervous to do so, however, because surely you will mention some books that sound truly fabulous, and I will feel even more overwhelmed and indecisive. But, fine. Bring it. Bring ALL the books.

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All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you like this weird-ass newsletter, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription so I can buy more books. (Obviously.)

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P.S. I’ve got some new events on the horizon! This Thursday night, 7/27, I’ll be in my hometown of Fairfield, Connecticut, at a benefit cocktail thingy for the Fairfield Public Library. Buy a ticket, put on something pretty and come! (And be sure to bring your fan, ‘cuz it’s gonna be hot.) Then, on August 9, I’ll be at Book Ends in Winchester, Mass, in conversation with the sublime Ms. Randy Susan Meyers, whose books you should read and whose Substack you should check out. (If I’m not mistaken, there will be wine at this event.) You can also catch me via Zoom on August 17, courtesy of the Watertown Public Library.

P.P.S. The Society of Shame (Rating: 4.5 Swans and a chilled dessert soup, but I’m biased) is Zibby’s Book Club pick for August! I’ll be doing a live Q&A on August 8th at 1:30 pm ET. Sign up here to join.

P.P.P.S. Here are a few other things I’ve read / am reading / am about to read lately — unrated! — if you’re curious.

Yellowface by R.F. Kuang (read)

Brotherless Night by V.V. Ganeshananthan (just started reading)

The Stranger in the Woods by Michael Finkel (just finished listening)

House of Cotton by Monica Brashears (next on my nightstand)

How Can I Help You by Laura Sims (about to start listening)

Five years ago, our family spent Memorial Day weekend in New Jersey, in the area my father in law is from. We were hanging out with some of my husband’s relatives as well as a group of families that are active in supporting, preserving, and researching two historic Black cemeteries in the area. (I wrote more about the experience here.)

On our first afternoon there, we went to a backyard barbecue. It was a hot day— hotter than normal for that time of year—with temperatures in the high eighties and no wind. I was intrigued and weirdly delighted to see that several of the women in attendance were using folding fans to stir up a bit of a breeze for themselves.

I don’t know what things are like where you’re from. But here in New England—in the circles I tend to travel in, anyway—people are not big fan users. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because we like suffering. Or maybe it’s because too many of us believe that thing science teachers and parents and other spoilsports like say about fans: that the effort of fanning yourself cancels out the cooling effect. Which, I’m sorry, is bullshit. Does it cancel out THE FEELING OF WIND ON YOUR FACE? No, no it does not.

Anyway, shortly after we returned from our trip to New Jersey, I bought a folding fan in Boston’s Chinatown, and now I carry it in my purse. I hate the heat. HATE it. So it is just so delightful to be able to whip out my little fan and wave it languidly in front of my overheated face. (And let me tell you, my friends: my face is overheated much more often these days, even when it’s not hot out, as my fluctuating hormones wreak havoc on my hypothalmic system. #ThisIsPerimenopause.)

Sometimes while I’m languidly fanning myself, I like to say things like, “Well, I do declare!” or “Why, I never!” in an old-timey southern accent. Other times, I like to imagine I am in the drawing room of an English manor house, or on the balcony of a 19th century brothel in New Orleans.

I feel like a slightly different verison of myself when I’m using my fan—an older, more eccentric, and slightly secretive version. There’s something about holding a fan that makes me feel like the cat that ate the canary. (Which is ironic, since cats don’t have opposable thumbs.) It’s fun. Meanwhile, I think my fan embarrasses my husband a little. Also fun.

I encourage you to join me in the land of the fan. It’s cheap, eco-friendly, charming, and effective. Men, don’t be shy; you can do it too. If you feel using a fan is emasculating, you can, like, flex your forearm or whatever while you do it. Or, here, buy a manly black fan with a terrifying T-rex DJ on it:

Still not convinced? Here are a few more of the benefits of #FanLife.

In social situations, a fan makes it more difficult to mindlessly shove food in your face. (As I am wont to do.) Like, if there’s a cheese platter, and you’re holding your fan in one hand and a drink in the other, you have no hands left to pick up crackers, let alone spread Boursin on them.

It’s a good conversation starter. People will be like, “Huh, that’s interesting. You don’t see that many people using fans.” And you can be like, “I know. I got the idea from this writer, Jane Roper. Have you heard of her? Her new novel is EXCELLENT! Let me tell you all about it while I languidly fan myself.” That sort of thing.

A fan is the perfect fidget toy. In addition to using it for its intended purpose, you can open and close it (which makes a fun little thrum-thrum sound), smack it (in its closed state) against your palm, or—if you’re really confident—do that dramatic thing where you open it with a little flip of your wrist. I recommend saying something like “We shall see,” right before you do this.

Fans don’t only benefit you, the fan holder. People next to you will get a little bit of refreshing second-hand air from your efforts. And if you really want to make someone happy, you can fan them for a little while. It’s a tender and generous thing to do.

If someone asks you how you’re doing while you happen to be using your fan, you can wink and say, “FAN-tastic!” But…don’t. It’s probably best that you don’t.

Look, summers are going to keep getting hotter, thanks to the mess we humans have made of things. We have no choice but to adapt—ideally in ways that don’t do further damage to the planet. So, next time you’re tempted to crank the AC up even higher, or buy one of those hats with a little electric fan built into it, ask yourself: wouldn’t it be more responsible, elegant, and downright fun for me to use a folding fan in this situation?

I think you’ll find that the answer is a resounding yes.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you’d like to support my work, and keep me in fans, please consider upgrading to paid. Thanks for reading!

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P.S. I’ve been having a blast visiting book clubs recently. If you’ve got a book club, or your mom has a book club, or you just want to pull together a bunch of your pals for a one-time pop-up book club to read The Society of Shame, I would LOVE to say hi and/or do a Q&A via Zoom or (in the Greater Boston area) in person. You can reach me at janeroper (at) gmail.com. Get your free book club discussion guide + themed cocktail recipe here.

I’ll be extra excited to come to your club if there’s a photo of Beaker on the wall.

P.P.S. Speaking of book clubs: The Society of Shame is the August selection for Zibby’s Book Club. (woohoo!) I’ll be doing a virtual Q&A for that on August 8 at 2pm ET. Sign up and get more info here. Don’t forget your fan.

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Apologies in advance for this very book-focused post. But I have to share this.

A few Thursdays ago, my phone started blowing up with texts and social media DMs from friends.

Did you see this?

This totally made me think of your book!

Life imitates art?

OMG, it’s the Society of Shame!

It continued like this for several days. It was because an article had just come out in The New Yorker revealing the existence of the “Gathering of the Thought Criminals”—a secret club of people who perceived themselves as having been “canceled” for one reason or another, mainly for going against liberal intellectual/cultural orthodoxies. The group, which meets monthly over cocktails and dinner, is helmed by a glamorous matriarch sort who reaches out to people she thinks might be a good fit.

If you’ve read The Society of Shame, then this is probably sounding VERY familiar….

If you haven’t read it, what the hell is the matter with you? JUST KIDDING! If you haven’t read it, here’s why the New Yorker thing is so crazy: In my novel, the main character stumbles across a secret club for people who have been “canceled” or publicly shamed or humiliated, who meet periodically over cocktails and dinner (or lunch, or brunch). The group is helmed by a glamorous matriarch sort who reaches out to people she thinks might be a good fit.

I mean….right???

Now, there are some key differences between the Thought Criminals and the Society of Shame, in terms of their purpose, membership, and ethos. In fact, the Society of Shame seems downright lovable compared to the icky grievance-fest that the Thought Criminals seems to be. Also, mine is fictional. The real one is…real. (I talked about all this and more on an interview I did recently on LitHub’s Fiction/Nonfiction podcast.)

But the Thought Criminals thing wasn’t the first time something verrrrrry similar to a plot point or detail in my book suddenly appeared in the headlines—or I was flooded with people sending me those It’s straight out of your book! messages.

For example, there was this:

Click to read the story

And this:

And this:

Those who have read my novel know that the inciting incident is a photo of the main character with a period stain on her pants that goes viral. The photo also reveals her U.S. Senate candidate husband caught in flagrante delicto. But naturally people are MUCH more fixated on the period stain, because of course they would be.

In the three (real) stories above, prominent women got flak for their visible period stains (or simulated ones, in the Kenyan senator’s case), and pushed back, refusing to be ashamed. The (fictional) #YesWeBleed activists in The Society of Shame would be proud. And I think it’s great, too. While the massive, unified pro-period movement in The Society of Shame is fictional, and while I do poke fun at some aspects of internet activism (and activism in general), there is a true anti-period poverty, anti-stigma movement happening through grassroots initiatives around the world and individual acts like those above. It’s awesome.

Now. The weirdest fiction-meets-reality thing so far was definitely this:

Click to read the story…if you dare.

OK, nobody actually eats a swan in my book. (Although the topic is discussed.) But there IS a pair of beloved swans, Sonny and Cher, in the New York town where the story takes place. Their threatened habitat becomes one of the book’s more ludicrous plot points, and a swan graces a cover of the book as well. In fact, it looks an awful like the one in the picture above, which, if you squint at a certain way, seems to be wearing sunglasses.

But the life-imitates-art stuff actually started well before The Society of Shame was published. For example—and I’ll keep this vague to avoid a spoiler—in the book there is a vocally anti-abortion public figure who is exposed for having paid for an abortion for his mistress. While my book was in copy edits, the news broke about (supposedly anti-abortion) U.S. Senate candidate Herschel Walker doing just that.

And months before that, an early reader brought it to my attention that people do, in fact, make earrings out of tampons, just like the teenage activitists in my book do. Who knew?

Photo from the SpellboundGabrielle shop on Etsy. Click to visit!

But such is the nature of satire, right? It’s a funhouse mirror version of reality, where everything is recognizable, but parts of it are warped to varying degrees to emphasize their hypocrisy, absurdity, and/or depravity. The problem is, there’s just so much weird in the world—especially these days—that inevitably some of the details or plot points the author intends to be just shy of over-the-top turn out to be very far under it.

So, at this point it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if, someday soon, HGTV rolls out a new reality show called “He Shed, She Shed” (page 126) or Starbucks comes out with a limited edition Bloodred Velvet Macchiato in celebration of menstrual pride (page 226), or Wolf Blitzer publishes a children’s book (page 239). In fact, I can’t believe they haven’t yet.

I’ve finally starting writing my next novel, and I don’t think it’s going to be quite as full-on satirical as The Society of Shame. But I do think that I’m going to follow the suggestion my editor made not too long ago, when I sent her the swan-eating story: Maybe you should put some lottery numbers in it.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you’d like to support my work, please consider upgrading to paid. Thanks for reading!

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P.S. I had a great conversation about writing funny / satirical fiction, among other random things (like whether or not it’s OK to kill coyotes) with the ever-so-fun and charming KJ Dell’Antonia, author of the forthcoming Playing the Witch Card, on her #AmWriting podcast. Check it out!

P.P.S. I’ve got my last couple of public events for a while happening this week, but I still would love to pop in via Zoom (or in person in the Greater Boston area) to say hi and do a Q&A at your book club! There’s even a fun discussion guide + cocktail recipe. Reply here or shoot me an email at janeroper [at] gmail [dot-com].

Periodically, I go to the hills.

That is, I go to the mountains. On Friday, I hiked the Tripyramid peaks in New Hampshire, two of which are on the list of 48 four-thousand footers in the state. I now have just three left. Woohoo! It was a perfect day—clear blue sky, highs in the sixties—and the hike was incredible, with varied terrain and stellar views. I hadn’t been up to the Whites since early March, so I was wayyyy overdue for a solo hike fix.

Like Maria Von Trapp—the Oscar and Hammerstein version, that is—I dig it when my heart beats like the wings of the birds that rise from the lake to the trees. Hiking one of the relentlessly steep trails of the White Mountains is a surefire way to make this happen, as is taking in breathtaking vistas of peaks and valleys and cliffs and things.

Actually, Maria Von Trapp and I have a lot in common: we both like to sing (including along with our children and husband) and have excellent pitch, we both love a good brown paper package tied up with string, and we both think Captain Von Trapp (as played by Christopher Plummer) is hella hot. Neither of us is cut out to be a nun.

(BTW, yes, this is my second post referencing The Sound of Music within the space of a month. This should tell you something about me.)

But on a number of points Maria and I differ. For starters, I can’t play the guitar, I’m indifferent when it comes to bright copper kettles, I’m not a fan of puppet shows, and I do not think those curtains made for very attractive playclothes.

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Most germane to the topic of this post, however: I do not go to the hills when my heart is lonely. Rather, I go to the hills when my heart is the exact opposite of lonely—when it’s so full and I am so overwhelmed by the noise and activity and substance of the world, and so tired of doing and giving and performing that all I want is to get AWAY from it all.

I want to go somewhere that’s (mostly) untouched by humans, where I can lose myself in the serene indifference of nature, and let my mind wander. I want to feel connected to the things that have always been and always will be. I want to feel dwarfed by the scale and majesty of it all. I want nobody demanding anything of me. I want QUIET.

Not edelweiss

I went to the hills over and over again during that pandemic and political shit-show of a year that was 2020—which also happened to be the year my father died.

I went to the hills when my agent went out on submission with The Society of Shame, to distract myself from the anxiety and suspense and excitement and stress.

I went to the hills after a painful falling out with a friend.

And I made for the hills on Friday because my heart, and the rest of me, has been so SO incredibly unlonely over the past two months. I’ve done upwards of thirty interviews and events to promote my book, attended gobs of related and unrelated social events, and had many, many, many conversations about my book, and how it’s all going.

It’s been a ton of fun, and I wouldn’t trade a second of it. But if I were an iPhone, I’d be at about 11% right now. I would have placed myself in low power mode, and turned off all notifications—except for texts, because otherwise how would my children contact me to tell me they need a ride home from so-and-so’s house? No, wait — they don’t, actually. Another so-and-so’s mom can give them a ride. No, wait, they can’t actually. Can you come in like 20 minutes? And can you give so-and-so and two other people rides? Actually, wait, can you make it more like 40 minutes? Hi again, we decided to go downtown, so can you pick me up at Dunkin’ in maybe an hour? And then take us to the mall? (Meanwhile I am already in the car on the way to so-and-so’s house, my battery now at 9%)

For me, the main symptom of a battery at critical levels is feeling utterly allergic to casual social interactions.

Last week, I ran into a friend at the grocery store and could barely string together a coherent sentence. It was like I’d forgotten how to human. I spotted another friend a few minutes later—one I would have normally enjoyed a quick chat with—and totally hid from her, by which I mean stared intently at a box of organic mixed greens until I was pretty sure she was gone. Then I went home and took a two-hour nap. (Tiredness is another symptom.)

And yet, I totally had enough energy to hike a 11.6 mile loop, including a punishing stretch up a 50-degree rock slide that I bet even Maria Von Trapp would have been a little freaked out by. She wouldn’t have been able to sing her way up it, at any rate.

Sometimes I go to the hills with other people—my beloved hiking pals—and that’s great too. But this time, being alone, not having to talk to anyone, and hearing nothing but the sounds of birds and rushing water and the wind (the sound of music whereof Maria sings, I assume) was just right. Beyond just right. Amazing.

My battery isn’t quite full, but it’s definitely back up over 50%. So, this week, if I see you in the grocery store, I will say hello.

Until then — so long, farewell.

Where it all began: When I was in second grade, I played Gretl in a local high school production of The Sound of Music. That’s me, post performance, in my not-quite-a-dirndl-but-close-enough dress, with my dad in his very on-fashion glasses.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living and pay for trail mix. If you’d like to support my work, please consider upgrading to paid. Thanks for reading!

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P.S. I would also love to say hello to you at one of my upcoming events! I’ve got stuff happening over the next couple of weeks in Roscoe (NY), Philly, and Concord and Watertown (MA). I’ve got lots of book club visits coming up too. If you have a book club and want to read SOS and have me come visit / Zoom for Q&A, contact me!

P.P.S. I really enjoyed doing this interview with Chris Holmes on Burned By Books last week.

P.P.P.S. Did you read and like The Society Shame? If so, I’d be beyond grateful if you would 1.) Recommend it to a friend or three 2.) Leave a 5- or 4-star review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. It makes a difference! Thank you.

P.P.P.P.S. If you like pretty hiking pics, follow me on Instagram and/or Facebook.