Jane Roper's Blog, page 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Published on January 30, 2024 07:11

January 16, 2024

I'm having an affair

It started back in late August.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2.) The main character owns an Airbnb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Published on January 16, 2024 07:50

December 22, 2023

My holiday gift to you

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

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

FOREVER!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That something else is, quite simply, thank you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

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

See how happy I look? I was so happy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ingredients:

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

3/4 cups shortening

1/4 cup molasses

1 egg

2 cups flour

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

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

1 tsp cinnamon

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

Instructions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Published on December 22, 2023 08:04

December 17, 2023

My former intern is out to get me.

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

OK he was actually ChatGPT. Whatever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worst of all, he’s doing it for FREE.

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

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

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

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

Here’s how it went.

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

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

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

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

What an asshole.

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

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

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

That was more like it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me walk that back a little.

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

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

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

Here. Have a tissue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Published on December 17, 2023 07:25

December 3, 2023

My 5 favorite books in 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, here goes. In no particular order:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightcrawling, by Leila Mottley (Knopf)

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

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

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

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

Rating: 27 can openers

Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription so I can buy (what else?) more books.

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Published on December 03, 2023 07:30

November 15, 2023

New rule: You can sing along even if you don't know the words

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.

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.

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!

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Published on November 15, 2023 08:17

October 31, 2023

Happy, Grief-y Halloween

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.

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:

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Published on October 31, 2023 10:09

October 14, 2023

The problem with the French

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!

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.

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Published on October 14, 2023 05:54

September 26, 2023

The 12 People You Meet on the Trail in the White Mountains

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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Published on September 26, 2023 06:25

September 9, 2023

Spiders, Pigs, and the Circle of Life

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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