Jane Roper's Blog, page 7
December 6, 2022
Three holiday songs that make me crazy
It’s the holiday season, and I am so here for it. (Hahaha I sounded like a millennial just then.)
I know this isn’t a particularly original sentiment but, gosh, I love Christmas. A big part of it is nostalgia for the Christmases of my childhood, and I feel that a bit more tenderly since my dad died nearly three years ago. That man loved Christmas, too. He was all about the magic of it, and making it magical for my brother and me. He was also all about wearing red/green/white plaid pants on Christmas day. Respect. (Christmases with him during my adult life were another thing altogether, but let’s not go there right now.)
Anyway. Christmas carols and songs are an extremely important ingredient in the holiday experience for me. If you are in my car or my house during the month of December, chances are I will make you listen to them—and sing along. Actually, it’s fine if you don’t want to sing; but I will be singing. I know all the words.
HOWEVER. I do not love all Christmas songs equally. Some of them (or portions of them) make me want to throw things.
Let’s look at a few examples, shall we?
Actually, before we do, I should note that this post was inspired by Lyz over at the Substack Men Yell at Me, who recently excoriated ‘The Little Drummer Boy.’ I am 100% on board with her critique of the song’s premise (honestly, what kind of gift is drumming for a newborn baby and his mother?). But I actually kind of like the song itself, no doubt in large part because it was on an album—nay, the title track of an album—that was in heavy rotation during the Christmases of my childhood. That old nostalgia trumps inappropriate gifts, repetitive pa-rumpa-bum-bums, and, apparently, creepy dolls with drums every time.
Somebody get that kid some plaid pants!So, if not intrusive child percussionists, what does annoy me in the Christmas song canon? I’m so glad you asked.
Let’s begin with ‘Wonderful Christmastime.” Every time this song comes on in a store or on the radio, I feel instantly exhausted. I can’t quite put my finger on why this song annoys me so much. Maybe it’s the repetitive and insipidly peppy melody? Maybe it’s the vapid lyrics? (“The mood is right. The spirit’s up. We’re here tonight. And that’s enough.” Enough for what?) Maybe it’s the fact that “We’re simply having a wonderful Christmas time” answers a question that nobody asked. (Did you ask Paul McCartney and his pals what they were doing? I certainly didn’t.) Or maybe it’s just that I expect more—a LOT more—from the guy who wrote “Blackbird” and “Yesterday.” Maybe I’m amazed* he was willing to put this thing into the world. I wish he hadn’t.
*see what I did there?
While we’re talking about songs with the word ‘wonderful’ in them, let’s talk about “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” I actually really like this song—the Andy Williams version specifically. Whenever I hear the first bars, I’m like, yeah, baby! Give me a mint green satin cocktail dress and a martini and let’s party like it’s 1963! I love the big, swingin’ sound, the catchy melody, Andy’s lounge-y delivery, and the fun lyrics. “With the kids jingle belling and everyone telling you be of good cheer” is some good songwriting right there.
But then…the bridge:
There'll be parties for hosting
Marshmallows for toasting
And caroling out in the snow
There'll be scary ghost stories
And tales of the glories
Of Christmases long, long ago
What?? Marshmallows? Ghost stories? In what universe are these things EVER part of Christmas? I mean, I guess it’s possible that someone, somewhere, has toasted marshmallows on or around Christmas, but it’s not like it’s a thing. Nor are ghost stories. (Were they in the 50s and 60s? I don’t think so…) And I don’t even know what to make of the “tales of the glories” part. What exactly happened on these long ago Christmases that could be considered “glories”? Were there epic battles? Feats of strength? Visits from the queen? Gather round kids, and I’ll tell you the tale of the glorious Christmas of ‘22!
I feel like the songwriters are trying to trick us into thinking that these things are normal parts of a typical American Christmas, just sliding them in like that. Or maybe they think we’ll be too drunk on swingin’ holiday cocktails to notice. Well I noticed. Dammit.
And then, sigh, there’s Do They Know it’s Christmas — the song recorded in 1984 by a bunch of British pop stars (plus Bono) to help raise money for aid for the famine in Ethiopia.
Oh boy.
I’ll begin by saying that, again, my nostalgia glands (ew) are triggered by this song, because it came out when I was a tween, and I somehow ended up with a 45 of it, which I thought was very cool. Like I was part of a MOVEMENT, you know? Also, I was a big fan of Duran Duran and Wham! at the time, so I felt like: Yeah, man. These are my people. And they are so nice to do this!!
But now I listen to the lyrics and… yikes. There’s the laughable “There won’t be snow in Africa this Christmastime.” (Yes, because famine exacerbates the snowlessness of a continent where it basically never snows.) The condescending “Do they know it’s Christmastime at all?” (I would think at least some of the two-thirds of the Ethiopian population that’s Christian had some inkling that it was.) And, worst of all, Bono bellowing “Tonight thank God it’s them, instead of you!” Ugh.
But it’s more than just the lyrics. There’s something tone deaf about the whole enterprise—a bunch of rich white dudes (and the main vocals are all done by rich white dudes) having a grand old time in a Notting Hill studio, burnishing their images in the process (Exhibit A: fifth grade me, thinking it was so nice of them to do this!), while thousands of people are dying. Hey, thank God it’s them instead of us!
However: I highly recommend checking out the video, if for no other reason than to gawk at a smokin’ hot young Sting. The fact that he seems slightly embarrassed to be there makes him that much hotter. Imagine having him as your English teacher? My god, I would have been standing so close to him every chance I got.
There are countless other Christmas songs that I could gleefully nitpick with a loving twinkle in my eye. For example, have you noticed that Feliz Navidad is the same verse and chorus over and over again, like thirty times? (And yet I still love singing along.) And can we discuss why My Favorite Things is suddenly considered a Christmas song for some reason? (Just because it has the words “winter” and “snowflakes” in it? Please.)
BUT, this post is getting long, and I don’t want to cut into anyone’s seasonal marshmallow toasting time.
Happy holiday listening, my friends. As always, thanks for reading.
P.S. Here’s another piece I wrote about Christmas. It involves Jesus, but not like you think.
P.P.S. There’s still time to enter the giveaway of my forthcoming novel, The Society of Shame, over on Goodreads. Enter by Dec. 14 to win one of 50 advance copies! Getting lots of contest entries helps build visibility and buzz for the book, so thank you in advance for entering.
November 22, 2022
I am thankful for one of our cats
Look! More seasonal content! In honor of Thanksgiving, I thought I’d share something I am thankful for: My cat.
One of them, that is.
Her name is Pepper. We (meaning I) rather impulsively adopted her from a shelter in 2018. Alastair was away on tour and I was in a sort of fugue state of misery and confusion. I’d recently absorbed the fact that every single editor my agent sent my (never-to-be-published) novel Grateful to had said no. So when the kids were browsing local shelter websites and were like “Mom, can we get this little black kitten?” I was like sure, fine, whatever, my life is over, kill me now.
But as it turns out, a kitten makes an excellent sorry-your-book-isn’t-getting-published consolation prize.
Today, though she is no longer a kitten, Pepper is still very small, the size of your average adolescent cat. She is playful, curious, and extremely skittish. We frequently imitate, in a timid, high-pitched voice, what we imagine she would say if she could talk, e.g.: Oh my goodness! When that person made that noise I was so terribly frightened! When she is in a good mood, Pepper will stand on your lap and let you pet her. When she’s in a really good mood, she’ll even sit. But god forbid you move a fraction of an inch, or she is out of there. Oh my goodness!
Pepper’s interests include popcorn, the basement, not being held, and carrying a little stuffed bird around in her mouth, then flinging it up into the air and chasing it like a maniac, which is a sheer delight to observe.
Her number one passion in life, however is our other cat, Opie—a nine-year-old, slightly overweight orange tabby.
Pepper follows Opie everywhere, and knows where he is at all times. She meows at us if he’s outside and wants to come in, or vice versa. She loves cuddling with him, wrestling with him, chasing him and being chased by him. Her idea of nirvana—which she achieves on a regular basis—is lying on the couch with Opie, licking his head and face and paws and and….well, there’s no delicate way to put this…his asshole.
Opie, on the other hand, is an asshole.
Let me explain. Because I can hear the dander of all you cat lovers and generally nice people who don’t call their pets assholes rising. I love Opie. Truly, I do. I love him like one loves their blowhard libertarian uncle after he’s had six Michelobs and is slouched on the couch, getting a little misty eyed, talking about what a cute little kid you were, and how he used to give you piggy back rides and buy you ice cream.
Opie has a lot of excellent qualities. For starters, he is incredibly chill around people. He’ll let anyone pick him up and pet him, and patiently allows himself to be man-handled by children.
Opie is also a champion napper, and will curl up next to you on the couch or in bed, and it’s quite nice. He is well liked in the neighborhood, and is not shy about lolling about in the sun on other people’s porches, or fucking with greeting their dogs. He is also very patient with the fact that Pepper considers him her BFF, when the feeling is clearly not mutual. (Except when she is licking his ass.)
Also, he does some funny stuff.
But Opie also has a lot of extremely problematic behaviors. And this is why, I’m sorry, it would be inaccurate to say I was actually, proactively thankful for him, as I am for Pepper, my sweet little booby prize.
For starters, there’s the spite pooping. On several truly horrifying occasions we’ve come home after being out of town to find cat shit in the bathroom sink. (Undetected or possibly ignored by the cat sitter.) How do we know Opie did it and not Pepper? Oh we just know. We fucking know.
Then there’s the food problem. When he’s not sleeping, Opie is constantly, constantly on the hunt for food. We can’t leave anything out unattended, because he’ll jump up onto the counter or table and start marauding. He has defiled countless cheese and charcuterie boards. He has stolen pieces of chicken FROM OUR PLATES while we were eating. Once, he ate an entire plate of cooked broccoli while our backs were turned. He is a fucking menace.
We frequently put him outside or sequester him in our bedroom while we’re cooking or eating dinner, just so we can have some goddamned peace and not have to worry about him clambering around on the counter and stove, getting into pots and pans, or knocking them to the floor for a more comfortable dining experience. (Although sequestering him is a risky strategy, because it can—and at least once did—lead to spite pooping.)
A secondary effect of Opie’s bottomless appetite and foraging instincts, alluded to above, is the breakage. Oh, the breakage. Sometimes when he is prowling the kitchen counters, he inadvertently knocks plates or pots or glasses off the counter, or takes them down with him when we are trying to physically remove him.
Other times, it is totally advertent, especially if it’s close to his dinnertime, and he’s trying to get our attention. He’ll just nudge, nudge, nudge a little something off the counter, or a table, and…crash. (Followed by “OPIE YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” from me or Alastair.)
Honestly, you could tile an atrium floor with all the broken glass, china and pottery that has resulted from Opie’s dick antics over the years. That cat alone is responsible for the loss of several beloved serving dishes, more than one mug with sentimental value, and easily $500 worth of wine glasses. Note that Opie is careful not to break the wine glasses bought secondhand or at the Dollar Store; only the nice ones from Crate & Barrel that Alastair’s parents give us for Christmas. Or used to, anyway, before they realized it was a waste of money.
Opie’s other target of destruction is paper, which he shreds and claws at when he wants to be let out or fed. And we’re pretty sure he knows how to read because, without fail, he goes after checks, bills, signed forms and permission slips, and other things that actually matter—as opposed to junk mail or scrap paper. Most recently, he decimated a bunch of letters to Georgia voters that I’d printed out and was going to sign and send, thus proving that Opie is not only a pain in the ass; he is a Republican. No big surprise there.
Finally, there is the unprovoked aggression. I should note that this has radically diminished since we got Pepper. Chasing and wrestling with her seems to have given Opie an outlet for his predatory energy—which is, in fact, part of why we wanted to get another cat in the first place. But he still occasionally gets pouncy, and seemingly out of nowhere his ears will go back and he’ll lunge at us. (Any one of us but Alastair, that is, whom he seems to acknoweldge as the alpha male.) In fact, this behavior used to be such an issue that the kids were sometimes terrified to walk past him if he appeared to be a jumpy mood. When Elm was younger, they even created a helpful one-pager about it.
Look, I know what you’re thinking: Opie isn’t trying to be a prick. These are normal cat behaviors. And yes, that may be true. But let’s be honest: these are cat behaviors at the asshole end of the spectrum. I had cats when I was growing up, and Alastair and I had another cat before Opie, and none of these cats did the shit Opie does on a daily basis. Nor does Pepper. So, forgive me if I don’t always feel warm and fuzzy toward the guy.
Will I miss him when he’s gone? Yeah, I suppose. I mean, he’s a jerk, but he’s still family. And he’s cute. And a good napping companion. And a great pal for ‘lil Pepper.
Oh, fine. I guess I’m slightly thankful for him.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I hope your holiday is heavy on pie and blessings, and light on assholes, feline or otherwise.
P.S. There’s a giveaway of my novel The Society of Shame happening over on Goodreads. Enter by Dec. 14 to win one of 50 advance copies! Getting lots of contest entries helps build visibility and buzz for the book, so thank you in advance for entering.
P.P.S. One of my fave bloggers / social media denizens / fellow copywriters since way back in my mom-blogging days, Liz Gumbiner (aka Mom101, and editor of Cool Mom Picks), just started a Substack. Check it out. Like me, she can’t pick a lane, and, also like me, she’s OK with that.
November 10, 2022
The Six Stages of Change
Last week, I broadcasted my last ‘Zeitgeist’ author interview.
For a year and a half, I was doing up to three interviews a month with memoirists, novelists, journalists, activists—even a famous person! And it was a blast. I loved choosing the authors, getting the books in the mail (FREE BOOKS!), learning how to read with an eye toward what topics or questions would make for good conversation, and making connections with new writers. I liked being able to amplify voices and stories that shine light on important topics like race, gender, class, ability, and more.
Interviewing Jessamine Chan, author of ‘The School for Good Mothers.’ She was awesome. I was OK. I also liked learning how to be a good (thought admittedly not great) interviewer. AND, I liked discovering—on account of staring at myself on camera for hours—that, hey, red lipstick actually looks pretty good on me. I should lean into this. And also possibly invest in some really nice turtlenecks, a la Diane Keaton, because neck things are starting to happen.
So…what happened? Besides the neck sadness? The Six Stages of Change is what happened. Don’t bother Googling it or looking for the book; I just made it up. I think.
I find this is often how it goes for me when it comes to life decisions and turning points. Maybe this sequence of events rings a bell for you, too:
Subtle, nagging weirdness
For a while, I’ll be going happily along, movin’ and groovin’, doing something I like or love, or have committed to. And then, without my quite understanding how or why, the shine dulls just a few degrees. I feel antsy. It’s like something has been lost, or is about to be. In the case of The Zeitgeist, I still enjoyed reading the books and talking with the guests and wearing red lipstick, but it started feeling more like something I had to do, as opposed to something I wanted to do. I was feeling like I wanted the time for other things. I wasn’t having as much fun.
Ignoring. (“Denial” would also work, but I don’t want to get sued by the estate of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross.) This is the part where I try to brush off the nagging weirdness: It’s just a temporary slump, I tell myself. You don’t really want to quit / change / move on. What are you, crazy? You love this job / activity / place / etc.! And think of the benefits!
But ignoring the nagging is ultimately futile. Because there it is, getting louder and louder, saying: Come on. Admit it. Your heart is not in this. Or, as John Prine might put it, your heart gets bored with your mind and it changes you. But you’re not quite ready to listen yet, because you are generally not an impulsive person, except when cake is present, so you have to move on to stage 3. (You meaning me. I don’t know why I changed person there.)
Also, sorry — for some reason Substack doesn’t want to acknowledge the line breaks I’m putting between these paragraphs. Maybe because they’re part of a numbered list? Silly Substack.
Cogitation
At this point, I start in with the full court press hemming and hawing. Should I leave / quit / change? Maybe I should leave. What would that look like? Will I regret it? I make pro and con lists. I talk to my husband endlessly about it, to the point where he’s like, “Oh my God, just quit already and leave me alone!”
And I journal. Oh, do I journal. I’m typically a very intermittent journaler, but when I’m pondering a change, I write so much that if my journal could talk, it too would say, “Just quit already and leave me alone!”
When I was 25, I bought and filled an entire journal over the course of a year as I tried to figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. I’d started to think that a 9 to 5 (or 8) career as an advertising copywriter—something I’d sort of stumbled into after college, but then fell hard in love with—was not meant to be my life’s work. I was increasing drawn to writing fiction and essays and the like, but wasn’t sure how or if I could make that a bigger part of my life without starving to death.
I hasten to add here that copywriting still IS very much part of my life. It’s what I spend the majority of my working hours doing, it pays my bills, and I like it very much. But I do it on my own terms. And long gone are my dreams of becoming a fancy, award-winning creative director who travels the globe wearing really good pants and excellent shoes.
Oh, my poor beleagured 2000-2001 journal. Although to be fair, it was a novelty journal tailor-made for stage 3, with a title and everything: Turning Points: A journal of new directions, with illustrations and quotes. Still, I’m pretty sure that after I filled the last page (actually, the inside of the back cover) it popped open a bottle of champagne got plastered.
The poor thing.
blah blah blah blah blah 25 year old me. Planning
This can actually be part of Stage 3, but it typically happens in the latter portion of that stage, and I wanted six stages—again, trying to avoid a Kübler-Ross lawsuit—so here we are. This is the part where I make timelines and brainstorm potential next steps obsessively. It starts out speculative: maybe this is the timeline I could follow? Maybe I should do X, Y and Z to get ready, or A, B, and C to make the new thing work?—and becomes increasingly more concrete as I finally give in to the reality that, yeah, I definitely need to change / leave / etc.
Deciding to stop doing a podcast (webcast? Whatever) is obviously not as monumental a deal as, you know, moving or leaving your spouse or figuring our your life’s path. Nevertheless, it did happen with The Zeitgeist, albeit on a truncated timeline: Over the summer, it was Maybe I’ll stop a few months after the book comes out—it will be good publicity/exposure to keep at it until then. Then, a couple of months later later: Well, no, maybe I’ll stop just *before* the book comes out, because I’ll be too busy afterward. And then: I’ll stop at the end of the year. Nice and clean. But about a week after that, I was suddenly like….
OMG I HAVE TO LEAVE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE
There was no reason I couldn’t stop after my last scheduled guest. So I decided that I would. Not because I was miserable, mind you! Not at all! I was still looking forward to the interviews I had scheduled. But I didn’t want to line up anymore. It was clear: mentally and emotionally, I’d already moved on. And there’s nothing worse than staying in a job or place or relationship once you know for sure that you are ready to leave. (See: My high school boyfriend. My entire senior year of college. My last few months in a full-time office job. My being 35 weeks pregnant with twins.) But often you need to just hang in there for a little while longer, for practical reasons. The anticipation can be simultaneously terrifying and delicious. And also annoying. The having to wait, I mean.
Sweet relief—and sometimes little sadness, too.
This is the best stage of all. You’ve taken the leap, and you feel GREAT. Sure, you may also feel a little like Benjamin and Elaine in the back of the bus in The Graduate, not quite sure what you’ve just gotten yourself into. Or you may feel a little wistful—or a lot—about what you’re about to leave behind. But mostly, you feel relieved. You’ve cast off the thing that doesn’t fit anymore, and you’re on your way. You feel exhilarated. You might also feel a little sheepish, knowing that this change is what you wanted and intended to do all along, and you probably should have done it sooner. But, like Dorothy in those magical ruby slippers, you needed to take the journey.
And so, there they are, my friends: the Six Stages of Change. And just like those other stages, they can repeat themselves, go in a different order, or get skipped altogether. The older I get, the faster I seem to cycle through them—I guess I’ve learned to trust my gut more.
Oh, and about The Zeitgeist: If you want, you can browse all the interviews here. AND, definitely check out the other author interview shows on A Mighty Blaze, including the gobs of past interviews. If there’s a contemporary author you love—including some mega-big names like Emma Straub, George Saunders, Dean Koontz— there’s a decent chance one of our hosts has interviewed them. It was truly an honor being a part of The Blaze, and though I know it was time for me to go, I’ll miss it. (Stage 6.)
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October 27, 2022
We need to talk about Salem, Massachusetts
As much as I’d like to give the impression that I live a glamorous life of writing novels and essays and random Substack posts by day and attending glittering parties with Pulitzer prize winners and drunk poets and Reese Witherspoon by night «pick my book for your club, Reese, pick my book for your club!» the fact is, I spend much of my time writing so-called content (i.e. blog posts, articles, whitepapers, ebooks, etc.) for corporate clients.
As an expert in the content field, I happen to know that seasonal content is an effective way to boost engagement, build brand loyalty, and attract and retain customers readers. So, here’s a seasonal post, just in time for Halloween, about Salem, Massachusetts. Actually, it’s more like a rant. A seasonal rant. Except it SHOULDN’T be considered seasonal, as I shall explain.
We live about a half an hour away from Salem, and go there fairly often to take our kiddo Elm to their LGBTQ youth group meetings. It’s a cool little city with some nice shops and restaurants and, as of a couple of years ago, a groovy cannabis dispensary. Not that I would ever, EVER frequent such a place (cough, cough, wheeze, hack, cough).
Mostly, though, what Salem is known for, of course, are the infamous witch trials of 1692-93, when 200 people, mostly women, in and around Salem were accused of witchcraft. Thirty of those tried were found guilty, and of those, twenty were executed.
Many of the accusers were teenage girls, who had convinced themselves, and managed to convince others, that they were possessed by the devil, or that they saw their neighbor Goody Goodwife dancing around a cauldron or whatever. This 100% tracks with what I know about teenage girls. If TikTok had existed back then, there would have been videos of teenage girls having convulsive fits going viral all over the place, and pretty soon half the Zoomers in the country would be claiming they were the victims of witches. I can just imagine the profile bios: she/her/hers, BTS stan, hexed by Hester Moody.
I’m not quite sure why the men in charge actually took the accusations of a bunch of raving teenagers seriously; I suppose it was just a good excuse to persecute women who did horrid, ungodly things like “read” or “not have children,” and men who just seemed a little “off,” and to strike the fear of the Lord into people on a more general level.
In any case, the whole thing was the perfect storm of mass hysteria, religious extremism, misogyny, fearmongering, racism (the first person accused of witchcraft, who was seen as the instigator, was Tituba, an enslaved indigenous woman from Barbados) and puberty.
It was a dark and regrettable chapter in American history. And you live in the Boston area, or have ever visited Salem, you know that that history is alive and very, VERY well in “Witch City,” as it is (soooooo creatively) known. You can’t walk more than a few yards without running into some witch-themed attraction or point of interest. Some of it is historical—plaques commemorating the victims of the witch trials and museum exhibits describing and analyzing what happened. But most of it isn’t.
Join the 700,000 tourists who flock to Salem each year and you can stop into any one of a zillion shops selling witch tchotchkes, witchcraft and related supplies (crystals, herbs, tarot card sets, etc.) and cheap witch hats to sport during your visit. You can snap a selfie with the statue of Samantha from the TV show Bewitched, erected when the 2005 movie version was filmed in town. You can take a walking tour with a current day, practicing witch who will teach you about the history of witchcraft around the world and school you on why all the stereotypes about witches are patriarchal bullshit. (This, actually, would be pretty cool.) Travel to the outskirts of town, and you can see the old houses used for exterior shots in Hocus Pocus.
But witches are just the beginning. You can also take a tour of Salem’s supposedly haunted sites, led by a theater major wearing a black cloak, carrying a lantern, and speaking in a bad British accent. You can pay $49.95 to attend a séance and summon the spirits of the dead. And if you’re brave enough to join the throngs who visit in October, you can walk down the pedestrian mall and see all manner of people decked out as witches, ghosts, zombies, monsters, and—for reasons unclear—Captain Jack Sparrow.
Basically, Salem has evolved into the all-things-spooky capital of the world, and the the go-to destination for Halloween.
But do you see what the problem is with this? DOES ANYBODY BUT ME SEE IT?
Let’s go back to those witch trials, shall we?
200 people accused, 30 people imprisoned, and 20 people killed for allegedly being witches. But were they witches? No. That’s the whole point.
THEY WEREN’T FUCKING WITCHES.
Nobody danced with the devil. Nobody cast spells on teenage girls. Nobody performed magic that caused their neigbhors’ livestock to die.
Did some of them do a little light herbal medicine? Almost definitely! It’s what people did! Were some of them superstitious? Did some of them have cats? Were some of them perhaps a little…odd? Very possibly! But they WERE. NOT. WITCHES! That’s why the whole thing was so stupidly tragic. There was nothing more haunted or supernatural or creepy about Salem than any other Olde New England town—except the fact that everyone had gone batshit crazy over the idea of witchcraft.
But now, more than three-hundred years later, the city where all those poor people were tortured and killed is raking in millions of dollars by acting as if they actually were witches—that, in fact, the whole city was chock full of them—along with ghosts and ghouls and spirit mediums and, apparently, pirates that talk like Keith Richards.
Consider this: if you walk down Washington Street in downtown Salem, you will encounter a plaque marking the place where a man named Giles Corey was pressed to death for refusing to plead guilty to witchcraft. PRESSED TO DEATH. As in, rocks and boulders placed upon his body, one after another, until he died. Imagine if he knew that someday, thousands of tourists and inebriated bachelorettes in souvenir witch hats would be following theater majors past the site of his brutal murder, learning about all the spoooooooky ghosts and witches of Salem?
My heart breaks. Just like Giles Corey’s non-witch bones did.
So. Now you see, I hope, why a post about Salem should NOT be considered seasonal content. And why Salem should, by rights, not be called “Witch City” but “Senseless Persecution of People who Weren’t Witches City” or “17th Century Religious Nut Jobs City.”
But, alas, it is and always shall be Witch City, because we’re stupid, and Salem needs the money, and jeez, quit being so literal, Jane. It’s fun! Don’t you like witches? And ghosts? And Halloween? And spooky stuff?
Yes, yes I do.
But they have nothing to do with Salem.
Happy Halloween.
I am also not actually a witch. Don’t kill me, please.Subscribe for free or upgrade to paid
In Memoriam:
Bridget Bishop
Sarah Good
Rebecca Nurse
Elizabeth Howe
Susannah Martin
Sarah Wildes
Rev. George Burroughs
George Jacobs Sr.
Martha Carrier
John Proctor
John Willard
Martha Corey
Mary Eastey
Mary Parker
Alice Parker
Ann Pudeator
Wilmot Redd
Margaret Scott
Samuel Wardwell Sr.
Giles Corey
October 14, 2022
To be filed under "C" for cringe
First, a quick hello and welcome to the new subscribers who found their way here via The 7 a.m. Novelist. Thanks for signing on for what I’m pretty sure is the world’s most eclectic Substack! In your honor, this post has to do with writing—specifically, sucking at it and getting better at it. But it’s also a metaphor for something, probably. If you figure it out, let me know.
So. We just finished doing a big renovation on the third floor of our house, and in the process I got something I’ve been dreaming of for ages: My own office, that doesn’t also serve as guest room / clutter dumping ground / place for the kids to watch movies with friends and leave popcorn and candy wrappers all over the floor.
It’s pretty sweet, and I feel damned lucky. (Never mind that we’ll be paying off the home equity loan forever…)
The early morning view from my office.In getting ready for the build, we went through and got rid of a whooooole lot of stuff we had in storage. (So satisfying! Like blowing your nose on a cold winter’s day!) As part of this process, I culled my huge collection of old photos, and sorted through copious files: letters and emails, artifacts from various jobs and trips, materials from writing classes I’ve taught, etc.
Sometimes deciding what to chuck or keep was easy: Do I still need EVERY SINGLE REPORT CARD from middle school and high school, on vintage 80s/90s green and white dot-matrix printer paper? No, no I do not.
Do I want the business cards from the various ad agencies I worked at between 1997-2009? Of course!
Do I want to keep the rejection notes I received during the brief few years that I submitted short stories to literary magazines? Yeah, definitely. Not just because they’re quaint (printed rejection notes, sent to me in self-addressed stamped envelopes!) but because they are a reminder of those heady, hopeful days when I first fell in love with this thing called writing. Some of them had words of encouragement, which I desperately clung to.
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But one chunk of papers presented a condunrum: In a fat file labeled “Feedback” I found a whooooole bunch of the critiques I received on the stories I put up for workshop when I was getting my MFA, along with some of the stories themselves.
Ugh.
Reader, the two years I spent at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop were not good ones for me in the ole self esteem category. I liked my classmates, and made some good friends, but there was definitely a “that which does not kill you will make you a better writer—or, better yet, deter you from being one altogether” ethos among the faculty.
There was also competitive undercurrent to the place: when I was there, financial aid was awarded based on merit, and re-allocated after the first year. (I was at the bottom of the funding totem pole, and stayed there.) Meanwhile, agents and editors regularly scouted the program, sometimes tapping a promising student on the head with their magical New York publishing wand. If you weren’t among those who received high praise from faculty and peers, generous funding, or a contract, it was hard not to feel second rate. At least, it was for me.
So, when I came across the “Feedback” folder a few months ago, I approached it with trepidation. Did I really want to revisit a period of my life when I was so insecure? Did I want to read the detailed dissections of my work that left me feeling incompetent and drove me to drink way too much PBR at Iowa City bars?
OF COURSE I DID!
Just…so much feedback.And you know what? The feedback wasn’t quite bad as I remembered.
I mean, yes, there were some real gems of faint praise in there that still make me fume. This one from a classmate, for example:
“[Story Title] has some good stuff in it. The premise is compelling. You’ve cleaned up your sentences, too.”
(Gee, thanks!)
And I vividly remember how deflated I felt by the critique from a professor that contained this assessement of a story I submitted. (The fact that he kept condescendingly using my name made it that much more infuriating.)
“You have ostensibly given us four different points of view here, Jane; but in reality, you haven’t given us any. That is, you haven’t gone deeply enough into these characters.”
oof.
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But most of the comments, while not exactly raves, weren’t so cutting in and of themselves that they should have made me feel as lousy as I did. Mostly they were constructive and kind. Maybe it was just the sheer volume of them that was so dispiriting. Maybe two years of constant, detailed feedback on one’s writing is just too much for any person to handle. Or maybe I was just unaccustomed to undertaking something academic-ish that didn’t come easily to me. I think that was probably a big part of it. I was used to being a star student.
What I found interesting was that things my Iowa classmates pointed out as strengths of my work—dialogue, pacing, making secondary characters feel three-dimensional—are the things I still consider strengths today. The weaknesses—overexplaining instead of trusting the reader, not making the stakes high enough—are the same too, as are some of the quirks. As one classmate wrote:
“What’s the deal with the parentheses? It’s like you’re trying to subordinate your own voice. I found the writing in the parentheses quite interesting, and I think you should uncage your words from the parentheses and let them breathe free! If you have something good to say, don’t hide behind it with weird punctuation.”
(I do like my parentheses.)
But the most striking part of going through everything was seeing HOW BAD MY WRITING WAS!!
Ok, fine, not terrible. But man, it has come a long way.
My characters smiled and nodded and laughed and shrugged far too much, and I included sensory details where they just weren’t needed. I also used to used WAY too many similes and metaphors. It was like I was so excited when I thought of a good one that I just couldn’t help showing it off. I was like a first grader with a loose tooth. A cat with a dead chipmunk in its mouth. A ceaselessly tolling bell.
(Fun simile anecdote, here in the parentheses: in one story I compared the thickness of a woman’s braid to a baby’s arm. A classmate kindly pointed out that this comparison is frequently used when talking about penis size. Who knew?)
But most of all, I clearly just wasn’t having fun. I was trying so hard to write these earnest, meaningful stories like the ones I admired, where people had small epiphanies or changed in subtle yet profound ways. But there was precious little humor or playfulness or passion in what I wrote. When I tried to convey big, messy emotions they felt more like the telenovela version of big, messy emotions. I was swinging for something that I thought was the definition of a good story, sometimes making contact, but ultimately striking out. (Forced sportsball metaphor.)
So, looking back at that old work was pretty cringe, as my kids might say. But it also made me feel a lot of tenderness toward my old self. For the gazillionth time in my life, I wished that current-day me could go back and whisper in the ear of younger me. I’d say Hang in there. Keep going. Trust that you will get better. And for god’s sake, stop with all the similes.
Although, ha, I guess I did all that anyway, didn’t I.
It’s a gift—albeit a slightly uncomfortable one—to be able to revisit your earlier work, and see what has and hasn’t changed; to see the seeds of good things to come, and the husks you’ve rightly cast off along the way. (Perhaps justified botanical metaphor.) And it feels really good to see concrete evidence of your growth and improvement, doesn’t it? In writing or in anything.
So, I’m not going to throw away the feedback folder. Just like I’m not going to track down and destroy every copy of my first two books, even though I know I’m a much better writer now than I was when I wrote them. I’m not going to toss the bad spec ads I wrote early in my advertising career either. All the clumsy attempts and middling results and painful failures—they’re all part of the story. (Cringe!)
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Perhaps my most well-received creative outing at Iowa: my 2003 “Overboard Halloween Mom” costume
(Chock full of parentheses, and probably too many metaphors.)
September 26, 2022
Strong beats skinny every time
So, my belly, Sheila, and I (“sheilar-and-I”) went backpacking last weekend, along with another friend of mine. (A human one, not a body part one.) It was three-day, two-night trip through the Pemigewasset Wilderness of the White Mountains, featuring incredible views and—let’s call them “invigorating”—cold nights. I tagged three more of the peaks left in my quest to summit all 48 four-thousand-footers in New Hampshire. The loop was 29 miles in all, and on the longest day, I logged over forty-thousand steps on the ole FitBit.
As you might imagine, this sort of thing is not Sheila’s cup of tea.
Walking around the Tesco or to the pub is about the extent of Sheila’s exercise regime, although she did to a bike tour in Portugal once while there on holiday—massive mistake.
So, there was as you might expect, lots of salty complaining, which went from good-natured and jokey to downright pissed-off (ticked off? tockered off? snooker-snicker-snockered off? Help me, British readers) once the terrain got steep. The c-word was bandied about quite liberally.
But then, interestingly, Sheila got very quiet. In fact, I more or less forgot that she was even there.
Even as I was consuming calories at a staggering rate—trail mix, cheddar cheese, pepperoni, Corn Nuts (what, you don’t hike with Corn Nuts?)—I wasn’t thinking about Sheila’s doughy presence beneath the hip-band of my 27-pound pack. Instead, I was feeling totally blissed out by the scenery, the spruce-scented air, and what my body could do.
Here in my late forties, I’m fitter than I’ve ever been in my life. You could bounce a two-quid coin off my quads. (But don’t try bouncing it on Sheila.) As for all those calories I was mowing down on the trail: they weren’t a matter of indulging—they were fuel, baby.
And yet at the same time: I can’t deny it. For me, one of the big perks of hiking (which I do a lot of these days) is being able to eat pretty much whatever I want and not worry about it.
So, now, I find myself at the awkward position of making two sort of contradictory points:
1.) Hiking makes me feel strong and badass and appreciative of my body and all it can do—and way less focused on its imperfections. (I hope Sheila didn’t hear that. Although if she did she’d probably just roll her eyes and laugh. “Of course I’m an imperfect, you c*nt! We all are!)
2.) Hiking is a great excuse to eat like a truck driver—a red-blooded ‘Merican one that likes Corn Nuts, beef jerky and M&Ms goddamit—and not feel guilty.
But let’s focus on the first one, because it’s the one that’s actually more important. And healthy.
As I’ve mentioned, there was a period of time in high school when I was in a competition with myself to see how little I could eat while still having enough energy to function, all the while secretly hoping that some adult would notice how damned skinny I was, and worry, and take care of me.
‘Cuz I pretty much took care of myself—and often my younger brother, too—during my latter teenage years, while my parents were both very focused on new professional pursuits. AND I had a GPA in the stratosphere and did, like, all the clubs, and won all the awards. I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” and “Parents’ Dream Child” in my high school yearbook. The second one (I mean, seriously, wtf kind of category is that?) made me want to develop a cocaine habit and bang the entire football team. But I didn’t, of course. Because I was a parents’ dream child.
Anyway. I can’t quite explain it, but being skinny was all wrapped up in this achieving and dream-childing. Being very thin was part of being very perfect.
And yet, I knew it wasn’t really healthy, or sustainable.
Then, the summer between my junior and senior years, I sent myself on a small adventure: I did a week of volunteer trail crew in the White Mountains with the Appalachian Mountain Club. There were about a dozen of us in the group, some Europeans, some Americans. (All adults; in retrospect, I don’t know if I really supposed to be there on my own, as a minor, but nobody asked any questions). We spent our days in the woods, gussying up the trails with clippers and hatchets and pick-axes, and then came back to the base camp where we ate a huge dinner and played cutthroat games of croquet.
That experience was the first time in a long time that I felt great about my body for the things it could do—not for its thinness. Hiking in the Whites is serious business, and you can’t do it running on fumes. You need fuel. You need food.
[Interjection: As I am writing this, one of my teen spawn and a bunch of her friends are outside in the yard shrieking songs from Phantom of the Opera, and I think it may get us exiled from the neighborhood.]
Did spending a week in the mountains cure me of my eating issues? No, not by a longshot. What I ate (or didn’t eat) continued to occupy more of my mental energy than would have been ideal for several more years. But the experience definitely nudged my priorities in the right direction.
And here I am 30 years later, still finding that it’s when I’m in the woods that I feel most fully in—and grateful for—my body.
Now. About #2: Relishing the opportunity to eat trail mix, PB&J, pepperoni-cheddar-Triscut canapés (“cairnapés” as I call them) and—afterwards—a big ole burger and beer without guilt?
Eh. I think as long as it’s not the primary reason I hike (it’s definitely not) it’s a pretty natural, and probably common, phenomenon. So you know what? I’m just not gonna sweat it or overthink it.
Sheila most emphatically approves.
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September 7, 2022
I'm naming my belly Sheila
I’ve decided to name my belly Sheila.
Sheila is British, though I think her father may be Irish. She’s a few years older than me—mid 50s—drinks too much, eats gobs of cheese, and loves a good treacle tart (“You are what you eat!” she says, then cackles). Every March, she and her sister and two best friends from uni go to Portugal, where she gets smashed nightly, gets a sunburn, and usually ends up shagging an Aussie or two.
Sheila curses like a sailor and tells the filthiest, funniest jokes I’ve ever heard. She loves dogs (unlike me), never forgets a birthday (also unlike me) and always picks up the check (ditto). She calls me either “love” or “c*nty,” depending on how many Merlots she’s had, and most important, she’s always after me to lighten up, have fun, and quit being so hard on myself.
It’s impossible not to like Sheila—which is good, because she’s not going anywhere. And, barring surgical intervention, she’s probably only going to get bigger as I get older, owing to the inevitabilities of aging, genetics, gravity, and the fact that I really don’t want to want to eat like how I imagine Gwyneth Paltrow eats (nothing but greens, lean proteins, healthy fats, and organic berries) for the rest of my days.
In other words, Sheila and I (pronounced “Sheilar-and-I”), aka my belly and I, are in it for the long haul.
Now, I can just hear those of you out there who know me, or have seen pictures of me, saying, Oh shut up, you don’t have a Sheila belly!
And yes, it’s true that I’m very fit, and am basically what you’d call thin. My arms are toned, thanks to regular indoor rock climbing, and my legs, thanks to running, hiking and good genes, are pretty damned spectacular, if I do say so myself.
BUT my question to you is: have you seen me in my underwear? For 99.8% of you, the answer is no. No you have not. If you had, you would know that my midsection is, well, soft and kinda lumpy, with a small but distinct (and squishy) bulge beneath the navel.
(“It feels like pizza dough!” one of my children kindly pointed out when they were six or seven, grabbing a fistful of it. “There was a lot less of it before you came along,” I growled.)
Now, let me just interject here to say that if you are someone who is annoyed by thin women talking about their bodily insecurities, I get it. Truly, I do. Don’t keep reading, because you’ll just be hating me and rolling your eyes the whole time, and that’s no fun for either of us.
But if you’re up for a post about the quest to accept one’s body as it is—something women of all shapes and sizes struggle with—and the role of my new mate Sheila in all this, read on.
The fact is, I have never liked my belly. Eons ago, at a pool party in eighth grade, I remember seeing my classmates in bikinis and wondering why most of their abdomens were long, smooth single planes, whereas mine (concealed in a one-piece) was in two parts—like a snowman or a chunky wasp. I don’t know if it’s because I have a giant uterus or mega-intestines or what, but it’s always been that way—even when I was borderline anorexic in high school, and weighed about 15 pounds less than I do now.
THAT is a whole other story, and it’s about much more than just weight / body image. I’ll save it for another post. But the upshot is: 1.) My family was pretty fat-phobic when I was growing up, my dad in particular 2.) For a couple of years in high school, I worked very hard to get very skinny, and got kind of addicted to the whole thing 3.) It took me a number of years to get to a healthier relationship with food and with my body.
Alas, 4.) I’m still not all the way there. (Is anyone?)
When I feel/see my belly spilling over the waistband of my jeans, or see it pooching out under a fitted dress or top, all these mean, negative thoughts come to mind: You look gross, and old. It’s your fault. You are indulgent. You are lazy. If you ate fewer carbs and sugar and drank less wine, it would go away.
The very fact that I think these things pisses me off, too. I’m a feminist, dammit! I’m healthy and happy and alive for God’s sake, and incredibly grateful for that fact, so why am I being so vain? Moreover, I am not overweight, I eat very healthily for the most part (if not Gwyneth healthy), and I look pretty damned good, so why am I being a whiny bitch? (Feeling bad about feeling bad: Now that is some serious overacheiving woman shit right there!)
I just don’t want to hate my belly anymore. Or hate myself for hating my belly.
Hence, Sheila.
I mean, when your belly is a bawdy, bon vivant British bestie who tells you look fantastic and that you need to stop worrying about things that don’t bloody well matter, what’s to hate, right?
So now, when I look at myself sideways in the mirror and sigh, I make myself think of Sheila rolling her eyes, giving me a playful swat on the knee and saying, “Oh, quit being such a [insert some fun British idiom here]. You look gorgeous, love. And who gives a fuck anyway?” Then she takes a big slug of her wine, kicks back in her chair and says, “Now, did I tell you the one about the Frenchman, the vicar, and the sheep?” She’s snorting with laughter before she even starts the joke, and then I’m laughing too, and all is well.
Sometimes Sheila goes a little tough love on my ass. She wags a finger at me and reminds me of her grandfather, who was blown to pieces by a German mine on his thirtieth birthday, or her aunt, who died of breast cancer at exactly my age. “Think they would choose being alive if it meant having a bit of paunch? You bet your arse they would! Now, shut up and have a biscuit.” (Isn’t it fun how many Britishy things Sheila says? I can’t wait to ride on an elevator with her, or take her to someone’s apartment.)
So far, the Sheila approach to belly acceptance is going smashingly—not so smashingly, however, that I’m going to show you a close up pic.
But here’s a snap of Sheila and me (Sheilar-and-me) on holiday in Mexico last February, goofing around together. We drank a lot of Dos Equis, had quite a few churros, and made fun of the iguanas. It was fabulous.
Be kind to yourselves, my friends. Or, at the very least, give yourself a fun-loving body part pal with a cool accent who will.
I love writing this newsletter, and am grateful to have a place to share my strange and eclectic brand of writing. I’ve happily blogged for free for years, and will continue to do so. I did, however, recently add a paid subscription option. If you enjoy my writing, and feel like it’s brought value to you in any way, I’d be honored if you’d consider upgrading. My dream is to gradually spend more time writing essays, humor and fiction, and less time doing corporate writing (which currently pays the bills), and every bit helps. BUT no pressure at all! It’s totally voluntary, and you’ll still get all the same content if you stick with the free version. Mostly I just hope you’ll keep reading! xoxox - Jane
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August 16, 2022
Quiz: Do you know how to buy groceries?
Here’s a fun quiz about division of labor. It’s definitely not based on things that have happened or could happen in my household. Nope. Nosiree. Not at all.
Ready?
Let’s begin.
I love that this photo existsImagine that your spouse / partner who normally does the grocery shopping—along with the meal planning and cooking—doesn’t have time to go to the store on a given week because they’re drowning in work. They ask if you’ll do “the big shopping,” and hand you the list they have very carefully compiled, with helpful details to ensure a successful trip. “Don’t forget the reusable bags!” they add as you head for the car.
Below are some of the items on the shopping list. Select which thing you will buy in each instance.
Mixed greens
a.) A bag or box of the mixed salad greens that your spouse always buys, has bought for years, and that you yourself use when making salads
b.) A bag of baby arugula, because you weren’t sure what your spouse meant by “mixed greens,” so maybe this will work?
c.) One of those weird, expensive butter lettuce things with the roots at the bottom that’s barely enough for one salad and comes in a bulky plastic box that takes up half the fridge, because it’s what your parents always get, and you thought it might be a nice change.
1.5 lbs grapes, but only if they’re $2.49/lb or less
a.) 1.5 lbs grapes, because they were $2.29/lb.
b.) 3 lbs of grapes—half of which will shrivel into what look like tiny, semi-deflated balloons before anyone gets around to eating them—because they were only $1.99/lb.
c.) 1.5 lbs grapes even though they were $3.79/lb because “whatever, we’re fine.”
A 16-oz container of fat-free cottage cheese
a.) A 16-oz container of fat-free cottage cheese
b.) A 16-oz container of full-fat cottage cheese because you’ve told your spouse a million times they don’t need to lose weight for God’s sake, and even if they did, why should the rest of you suffer?
b.) A 16-oz container of fat-free ricotta cheese. Sorry—you thought they were the same thing.
A 12-pack of seltzer—any flavor but lime
a.) A 12-pack of some kind of seltzer that’s not lime
b.) A 12-pack of lime seltzer
c.) Text your spouse 4 times while they’re on a conference call: What flavor seltzer? Hello? Grapefruit or Black Cherry? HELLO??
Annie’s Bunny Fruit Snacks
a.) Annie’s Bunny Fruit Snacks, because your spouse probably had a reason for specifying the brand rather than just saying “fruit snacks.” For example, perhaps Annie’s don’t contain gelatin, so your vegetarian child can eat them, unlike other brands, like Welch’s.
b.) Welch’s Fruit Snacks, because they’re much cheaper. (And you’re already spending a lot on those grapes.)
c.) You can’t find the fruit snacks.
One can of coconut milk
a.) A standard, 15-oz can of coconut milk, like any normal person would buy if someone said to buy a can of coconut milk.
b.) A huge, 24-oz can of coconut milk that your spouse will have to freeze most of, because the chicken curry recipe they’re planning to make only calls for one cup of coconut milk. (Note: the frozen leftover coconut milk will be found in the back of the freezer in two years, and nobody will know what it is.)
c.) You can’t find the coconut milk.
1 can of plain tomato sauce (not spaghetti sauce)
a.) A standard, 15-oz can of plain tomato sauce, like any normal person would buy if someone said to buy a can of plain tomato sauce.
b.) A teeny 8-oz can of tomato sauce that isn’t enough for the chicken curry recipe that your spouse is planning to make, which calls for one can of tomato sauce, such that your spouse will have to make a separate trip to the store later, just to get more tomato sauce.
c.) A 24-ounce jar of spaghetti sauce.
Approx 3 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs
a.) 3 lbs boneless, skinless chicken thighs
b.) 5 lbs bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs
c.) Shit, I knew I forgot something.
BONUS QUESTION: Did you remember the reusable bags?
a.) Yes!
b.) No
c.) No, why didn’t you remind me?
Now, tally up your score:
Mostly A’s: Nice job! Can you help do the shopping more often?
Mostly Bs & Cs: You know what? Forget it. I’ll go next time.
Happy shopping, y’all!
PS - Apropos of absolutely nothing, the author would like to note how very grateful she is for the fact that her husband does the lion’s share of routine housework, including but not limited to laundry, dishes, yardwork, vacuuming, and trash/recycling. The author also acknowledges that she leaves her shoes and empty water glasses / mugs all over the house. She would also like to note that she loves her husband very much—even when he does the grocery shopping.
PPS: For more exciting, grocery-related content, check out this post.
PPPS: Thank you for reading!
Brought to you by the Society of Shame(less) self promotion
August 3, 2022
The Society of Shame(less self-promotion)
Hello, friends, family, and far-flung others! I hope this finds you healthy, happy, and not melting in the heat.
I’ve got two pieces of news, and I hope you don’t mind my sharing. (This may be week-old news to you if you already follow me on Facebook / Instagram / Twitter…apologies!)
As you may or may not know, my new novel, The Society of Shame will be published in April 2023 by Vintage / Anchor Books.
Here’s how the publisher describes it:
In this timely and witty combination of So You've Been Publicly Shamed and Where'd You Go, Bernadette? a viral photo of a politician's wife's “feminine hygiene malfunction” catapults her to unwanted fame in a story that's both a satire of social media stardom and internet activism, and a tender mother-daughter tale.
I know next April seems like a long way off (will we all be using self-driving cars and wearing futuristic metallic jumpsuits by then? Will monkeypox have overtaken the globe? Who knows!) but the wheels of pre-promotion are in motion, and I’m proud to reveal that my book has a COVER!!
I love it, and am so grateful to the folks at Anchor, and especially designer Vi-An Nguyen, who created it. It’s nothing like what I had imagined, and yet it’s perfect.
Why the swan? Why the sunglasses on said swan? You’ll have to read the book to find out.
Which brings me to news item #2: The Society of Shame is now available for pre-order! You can learn more about it and order at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Bookshop.org (my fave, because you can use it buy at local bookstores, and because it’s not run by people who spend millions of dollars to go up in rocket ships for no reason).
I would be SO grateful if you put in your order now. Why? Because pre-orders are huge help for authors. They send the message to publishers, reviewers, consumers and others that there is demand for the book, and they should probably see what all the fuss is about—by promoting it / buying it and/or turning it into a sure-to-be-Emmy-winning streaming TV series. Also, it’s fun to have something show up in the mail that you forgot you ordered months before, right?
Finally, finally: To those of you receiving this email who are not already subscribers, I’d be delighted if you stuck around. I send this newsletter once or twice a month, usually with an essay-ish thing musing on such diverse topics as the oppressive nature of excess tupperware, dreading the empty nest, my ridiculous old photos, and a lot of hilarious stuff about mortality. I’ll post occasional book news / events, too.
But if you’d rather not receive these missives, it’s totally fine, I get it — just hit that unsubscribe link at the bottom. I won’t even know, so you don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. :-)
Again, thank you so much for reading this. I promise not to go overboard on the self-promo. I’m just very excited about this book—my first to be published in 10 years!—and I truly hope you will read it.
xoxo
Jane
P.S. Here’s the story of how The Society of Shame got written—and why it’s so different from anything I’ve written before.
It’s a long story…..
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