Jane Roper's Blog, page 6

Wait, how do I do this again?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I’m a loooooooong way from that shore.

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

So. Onward and upward I go.

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

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

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

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

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

Lighten up Francis (about having fun while writing)

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

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

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

Thank you as always for reading.

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

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

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

My reading life is chaos. How's yours?

My reading life these days is….weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Guest by Emma Cline

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

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

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

Sucker by Daniel Hornsby

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

Rating: Negative four zebras

My Murder by Katie Williams

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

Rating: π r2

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky

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

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

Goddammit.

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

Lost & Found by Kathryn Schulz

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

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

RIGHT??

Rating: Oh, shut up.

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

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

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

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

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

Yellowface by R.F. Kuang (read)

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

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

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

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

I've taken to using a fan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Stop plagiarizing my book.

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

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

Did you see this?

This totally made me think of your book!

Life imitates art?

OMG, it’s the Society of Shame!

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

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

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

I mean….right???

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

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

For example, there was this:

Click to read the story

And this:

And this:

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

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

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

Click to read the story…if you dare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Battery level critical

Periodically, I go to the hills.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not edelweiss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until then — so long, farewell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Products that probably don't do sh*t

If you’ve read a certain novel of mine, you know that it’s host to a range of characters who have gone viral for various reasons—some good, some reprehensible, some completely absurd. (So, you know, like real life.)

One of these characters, briefly mentioned, is an elderly woman who becomes internet famous for a video she makes of herself trying a new face cream. The video ends with her angrily declaring, “Well, this stuff doesn’t do shit!”

If that video existed in real life, I would totally share it, because I am pretty sure that 90% of the skincare products I buy don’t do shit either. Does this stop me from buying them? Or watching the ads for them that now constitue three-quarters of my Instagram feed because the algorithm can read my thoughts and feelings and possibly see my face? No. No, it does not.

Basically my entire Instagram feed.

So, please allow me to show you a few of the products I own that probably don’t do shit. And let me preface this by saying: I know. I know, I know, I know: I am a victim of the patriarchy and capitalism and misogyny and ageism. I am a sucker and a stooge. I am vain as fuck-all. But I’m also conflicted about it all, as I’ve written about at length.

So, let’s just move on to the products, shall we? (“Product.” People in becauty product ads love using that word.)

Bright and Tight. I mean, who wouldn’t buy an eye cream called Bright and Tight?? This PRODUCT is supposed to make my the skin around my eyes look tighter and…I guess brighter? It’s best not to overthink it. I smile after I put it on (when I remember to put it on), because I’m so excited about the impending brightness and tightness of my eye skin. This has the unintended effect of showcasing the many wrinkles under and around my eyes, but reminds me that I do like my smile. I suppose I could have saved $18 by just slapping on some sunscreen and smiling at myself in the mirror, but where’s the fun in that? I have no idea if this product actually does shit. Probably not.

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Peace Out Retinol Eye Stick. Retinol helps reduce fine lines, basically by exfoliating dead skin and maybe stimulating collagen production. My doctor confirms this. Although recently, some ad on Instagram for an eye cream told me to STOP USING RETINOL! (because it’s bad for your skin microbiome or something) and buy their product instead. But their product doesn’t come in a stick, and things that come in sticks are fun, which is the main reason I bought this particular product. Does it do shit? Doubtful. But it was cheap, and did I mention it comes in a stick?

Hydrogel collagen mask. Sigh. This is perhaps my saddest, most desperate skincare purchase ever. My chin/jawline has always been a source of insecurity to me, so I thought, what the hell, I’ll give these puppies a shot, even though I’m pretty sure “hydrogel collagen” is a meaningless, made-up thing. On the other hand, these masks get tons of rave reviews on Amazon, which is basically the same thing as science. They also *feel* like they’re working, which goes a long way. They’re refreshingly cool and aspirationally snug, like they’re training my chin flab to be firmer. When I’m wearing them, I look like a cross between a high school wrestler and Hannibal Lecter, and if that doesn’t say “beauty” I don’t know what does. Pretty sure they don’t do shit.

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L’Oreal Revitalift Overnight Mask (masque de nuit!). Does anyone actually know what the difference is between a day cream and a night cream? Is the night cream thicker and dreamier? Does it contain a higher percentage of fairy dust? Who knows, but I use the stuff every night—usually whatever brand I have a coupon for at CVS. What I find particularly hilarious about these creams is the “proof” that they work, as described on the package: “The majority of users saw an improvement in skin firmness and reduction in fine lines and wrinkles after 2 weeks.” Yes, the users themselves “saw” it. But we see what we want to see, don’t we, my friends? And we want to see that the $29.95 night cream we just used our ExtraBucks on actually did shit.

I don’t know if this particular cream does or not. What I do know is this: until like four years ago, I thought it was weird that the instructions for these creams said to massage into “face and neck.” Neck? Why bother with the neck? It was my face I was worried about!

HA HA HA!

HA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAH…..goddamnit.

Estee Lauder Night Repair Serum. Look, I just needed some foundation. I was at Macy’s—the nice one, at the Burlington Mall—and the Estee Lauder area had some special thing going, with the chairs and the lights and the extra makeup ladies and the promos and the yada yada and I thought: hey, maybe for once in my life I’ll buy something other than L’Oreal foundation using Extrabucks, because I’m a grown-ass woman. And maybe I’ll get a free makeup bag as a bonus gift or something. Next thing I know, I’ve got three ladies around me, doing their practiced oohing and ahhing thing (You’ve got such great skin! You look so young for your age!) and I walk out of there $150+ poorer with not only foundation, but concealer, a facial cleanser a serum. (And, yes, A BONUS GIFT!)

The serum—a word that sounds both scientific AND magical, but is actually neither—is the color and viscosity of engine oil, and for all I know actually is engine oil. Does it do shit? No fucking clue. Maybe if I actually remembered to use it regularly it would. I think I’ve had this one bottle for like three years. It’s going to give my 20-year-old Benadryl a run for its money.

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“Jane,” you may be thinking at this point, “you’re a smart lady. Why do you buy this crap when you know that it probably doesn’t do shit?”

Terrific question. I suppose it’s a form of denial—a vain (ha) hope that maybe something will do something to turn back the clock. Also, when your Instagram feed is jammed with this stuff, and it feels like everyone else is doing it, you start to feel like maybe you should, too. Ah, the power of advertising. (And I work in advertising! I should be better than this!)

I’m trying to change gears—really, I am. I’m attempting to inoculate myself against excessive dumb product purchases by reading more articles and blogs that critique beauty culture and debunk the beauty industry’s “science” of skincare. One of these is Jessica DeFino’s Substack, which I recommend—although I will say, the fact that she’s in her early thirties, with nary a wrinkle on her face and a neck as taut as a rubber band, undermines her message a bit. It’s a lot easier to pooh-pooh beauty standards when you already meet them. When I want a kiss-off to the anti-aging industry from a woman who has actually aged, I look to Justine Bateman.

Meanwhile, there are some things I’ve always done—wearing sunscreen, eating well, drinking lots of water, not smoking, getting enough sleep—that actually do do shit for skin, which I will continue to do.

And maybe, just maybe, someday I’ll achieve the ultimate when it comes to my wrinkles and sags and flaws: Not giving a shit.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but if you like my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription so I can buy masque de nuit even when I don’t have Extrabucks. Just hit that “subscribe now” button below.

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P.S. I’ve been having so much fun doing events for The Society of Shame, including, recently a few book club visits. There’s lots of juicy stuff to discuss in the book: cancel culture, internet activism, politics, period mishaps, tween angst and swans (evil or PURE EVIL?)

If you have a book club, or know someone who does, or you just feel like hosting a one-time, pop-up book club party, I would LOVE to Zoom in for Q&A! (And if you live in the greater Boston area-ish, I can even come in person, schedule permitting.) Contact me here. And check out my nifty book club discussion guide, complete with cocktail recipe!

Invite me to your book club, and I will murder a cake for you.

P.P.S. I’ve added a few new events to THE TOUR OF SHAME. Next week I’ll be in Portland and Freeport Maine, then in June I have events in Roscoe, New York, Philadelphia, Concord, Mass. and Watertown, Mass. Hope you’ll come!

How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?

Shortly before my wedding, nearly twenty-two years ago, an older woman—some friend of my parents, I think, most likely named Nancy or Linda or Sandy; possibly Carol—told me that as I was walking down the aisle, I should look at the faces of everyone assembled there, all my friends and family, as a way to really take it all in.

I figured it was worth a shot. So as I proceeded down the aisle with my parents I looked around, gazing at the faces in the crowd, making some brief eye contact here and there. Yep, there was my great aunt. There were my college friends. There was a pal from work and his batshit crazy girlfriend. There was another friend of my parents named Nancy or Linda or Sandy, and her husband Bob or Jim or whatever. Yep, yep, yep.

But the feeling I had as I was doing all this looking around wasn’t a feeling of “successfully taking it all in.” It was a feeling of “I must look like some kind of possessed demon bride, this is realy weird, why am I doing this.”

Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!

All day, I kept trying to take it all in. I’d been looking forward to my wedding for more than a year, planning and prepping and anticipating. It was a major event! A (probably) once in a lifetime thing! I wanted to really feel it!

But despite my best efforts and most concerted, crazy-eyed staring, I experienced it in more or less the same way I did any pleasant event.

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Don’t get me wrong: I felt joyful and grateful and happy. I had a blast. It was a special day, and it felt special to be sure, what with all the music and people and flowers and finery.

But all the in-taking didn’t result in any sort of deep-in-the-gut satisfaction. There was no punctuation, no climax, no release. (Insert wedding night joke here, if you must.) No matter how hungrily I gulped it all down, I didn’t feel full. Except of cake. And champagne.

It’s been like this my whole life when it comes to big days and big events. When I’m looking forward to them, they’re like gorgeous, towering cumulus clouds up there in the blue. I can’t wait to bite them or bounce on them or just roll around in them, listening to the choirs of angels or music of the spheres or what have you.

Look—it’s my wedding!

But then, finally, I get to them and….oh. They’re made of vapor.

Nice vapor! Interesting vapor! But you can’t scoop it up or swallow it or fall back into it and sleep the best sleep of your life. You can do your damnedest to take it all in, but it won’t fill you up. So you just hang around inside the cloud for a while, feeling pleasantly damp, thinking “hey, cool, I’m in a cloud,” until it’s time to go.

And then, wouldn’t you know it? When you look at the cloud in the rearview mirror (because now we’re in a car in this scenario, apparently), it’s back to its gorgeous, solid, billowing brilliance.

What does hit hard and physical and solid as hell in the moment? Grief. Loss. Fear. You don’t have to take them in to feel them—they take you.

When I’ve had my heart broken, when Clio was diagnosed with cancer, when my father was on the brink of death—I felt all these things deeply and viscerally, in my stomach, my limbs, my heart, my mouth. The sorrow of what was happening made reality feel so crushingly hyper-real that all I wanted was out.

How is this fair? Why can’t the good stuff affect us in the moment just as hard as the bad does? (Evolutionary blah blah blah fight or flight, etc. I know.)

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I’m happy to say that I’m not dealing with pain or grief right now. But I have been experiencing the cumulus cloud phenomenon as I launch The Society of Shame into the world. Just as I knew I would.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of interviews and events and travel and celebration and attempting to drink from impossible-to-drink-from swan-shaped wine glasses:

I’ve been on trains, planes and automobiles. I’ve gotten to see and/or stay with friends and family I haven’t seen in months, years, even decades. I’ve been overwhelmed by the love and support and enthusiasm people have shown. I’ve had champagne! And cake! Wait, no; cupcakes. And cookies. Good enough.

Some really exciting things have happened along the way, too, like having the book picked for Zibby’s Book Club for August, and named a People magazine book of the week. There’s some other good stuff on the horizon too, knock on wood.

I visited basically every bookstore at every airport on my trip to the midwest. None of them had my book. But they had the issue of People with my book in it! Woohoo!

Honestly, the whole thing is one big freaking dream come true, and I couldn’t be happier.

Correction: I couldn’t be happier UNLESS there was some way to feel it all in the moment(s) with the same intensity as I felt the anticipation—and with which I will, no doubt, feel the recollection. I want to not only suck the marrow out of it, Thoreau style, as I’m doing, but to have it actually fill me to bursting.

But vapor doesn’t do that.

Still. I keep trying.

So, look, if you come to one of my events in the next few weeks or months (which I hope you will), and I am scanning the faces in the crowd, smiling like a creepy, possessed doll, possibly making brief, unnecessary eye contact with you…well, now you know why.

And I apologize.

At my launch event at Porter Square Books, TAKING IN the dramatic reading of one of the scenes of the book.

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

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In memoriam: My 20/20 Vision

The 20/20 (or maybe even 10/20?) vision of Jane Roper, aged 48, died peacefully at home last month, surrounded by things with unreasonably small type on them. Survivors include what’s left of Jane’s vision (which is fortunately a lot), the flawless vision of her children, and the presumably good night vision of her two cats.

Jane’s ability to see both near and far with stunning clarity was long predeceased by that of her nearest blood relatives—her parents and brother—who couldn’t believe, and were frankly a little annoyed by, the fact that she’d made it so long without needing glasses, given that they were all wearing them by their late twenties. Same goes for her beloved husband, Alastair, who has been nearsighted basically forever.

Jane’s stellar vision was always ready to lend a helping..…eye, and was often called upon (or not) by others to read distant signs on the highway, in airports, and elsewhere. Many times, upon reciting aloud what she saw in the distance, Jane received the response that warmed the cockles of her retinas: “Wow, you can read that?”

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Jane’s vision will also be remembered for its ability to read, even in dim light, Penguin Classics editions of very important books as well as mass-market paperbacks from the 1960s-1980s, when apparently everyone’s vision was much better. Maybe because there weren’t microplastics in the water supply or antibiotics in meat or something? Who knows.

Like many people, Jane was at first in denial about the waning strength of her beloved, bodacious vision. In fact, to this day, she can frequently be heard saying things such as: “It’s not like I need glasses to read. It just makes it a little more pleasant, especially when I’m tired” or “Seriously, though, can anyone actually read this?” while extending her arms fully away from her body in an attempt to read, say, the dosage amount on a bottle of NyQuil.

One of the most traumatizing moments in the gradual and then shockingly precipitous decline of Jane’s eyesight—which was first restricted merely to a worsening of her near-vision—was the morning last month when she and Alastair were en route to the airport, and the print on billboards and signs in the far distance that normally would have looked sharp and clear, looked slightly doubled and blurry. Jane repeatedly rubbed her eyes, thinking there must be something in them, and then, while waiting for her flight, Googled things like “sudden change vision brain tumor?”

Thus far, Jane’s slightly diminished distance vision has not presented any major issues. However, Jane now lists the word “bifocals” among her triggers.

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But while the loss of her lifelong, ocular companion has been a source of wistfulness, melancholy, and the utterance of such erudite lamentations as “fuck, I’m getting old,” Jane has done her best to accept the loss and move forward. She is doing this in part by telling herself that glasses are an exciting new way to accessorize—and also an excellent way to procrastinate, by virtually trying them on at the Peepers and Warby Parker websites.

[Note: Jane did not end up buying any of the above.]

In another example of looking on the bright side (where it also happens to be easier to read) Jane figures she’ll look “extra author-ly” if she whips out a pair of her +1.25s while reading aloud from her book when she’s on tour in the coming weeks. To this end, she recently purchased a pair of orange readers, to match the cover of The Society of Shame. She doesn’t know how they look on her, though, because when she looks at herself in the mirror wearing them, it’s all blurry—a cruel irony of reading glasses. If you come to one of her events, you can tell her yourself. (SEE how she did that?)

Services and visiting hours will not be held for Jane’s perfect vision. In lieu of flowers, please send cool reading glasses, large type books, and carrots. (And please don’t tell Jane it’s only going to get worse. Believe me, she knows.)

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available. If you’d like to support my work, and my ability to keep buying fun reading glasses, please consider upgrading to paid. Thanks for reading!

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P.S. I had the opportunity to put together this fun list of book recommendations / reviews for Shepherd, which is an excellent site for finding your next read, with tons of cool lists. Check it out.

P.P.S. The Society of Shame drops on Tuesday! I’m both excited and terrified. Thanks so much for the support that so many of you have shown over the course of this endless buildup, and the pre-orders you have placed! I would be delighted to see/meet you at one of my events on THE TOUR OF SHAME. The first one is Porter Square Books in Cambridge on 4/6, then I’ll be in Milwaukee (this one will be extra fun, with drinks and apps and things! Come!), Chicago, and Iowa City. Then back on the East Coast after that.

P.P.P.S. If you’d like to take our relationship to the next level, come hang with me over on Facebook (did I mention I’m old?) and/or Instagram.

Can we be real about aging? Please?

We don’t subscribe to The New Yorker anymore. Watching them stack up, only about 20% read, week after week, became a source of dejection and despair—a visible reminder of the fact that we will never accomplish or experience all that we hope to in our lifetimes. And this sort of existential dread is just not what one wants from one’s magazine subscriptions, you know?

But I do miss it sometimes, especially the covers, many of which have stuck with me for years. I particularly loved the ones by Chris Ware. They so beautifully capture both larger cultural moments and more intimate, personal ones. He’s sort of a modern-day Norman Rockwell, but with more melancholic undertones and a stronger political bent.

One of his covers that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately is this one, called “Mirror”:

“The Mirror” New Yorker Cover by Chris Ware

This speaks to me so damned hard. I’ve got two fresh-faced teenagers, including a daughter who is learning how to use clothes and makeup and other such things to enhance her loveliness. She is on the cusp of womanhood, blossoming.

I remember that feeling. I remember looking in the mirror at sixteen and thinking: I’m starting to look like a woman—and I look pretty good! I look cute in this clingy dress, or those heels, or these stonewashed, high-waisted, button-fly jeans! (It was the early 90s. And actually, I didn’t, but no matter.)

Now, in my late forties, when I look in the mirror I often find myself thinking, wait, what? What the hell is happening here?

I see my neck turning crêpey and the first traces of teeny little vertical lines over my lips—the kind I associate with gravel-voiced chain smokers and bad, hot-pink lipstick. I see age spots appearing here and there—a puke tan one has recently taken up residence on my collarbone, and a little dark brown slash appeared on my jaw a couple of weeks ago and was like, “Ha ha. Deal with it.” Meanwhile, the hollows beneath my eyes are getting steadily deeper, such that it would not surprise me to find a small family of foxes living in them in the near future.

I also have this sinking feeling that some morning maybe five, six years from now, I’m going to look in the bathroom mirror and my nascent jowls are going to dramatically unfurl into big, droopy, actual jowls, right in front of my eyes. There might even be a little “ta da!” trumpet sound.

ta-da.

As I’ve said before, I wish I didn’t give a shit about this stuff. I’d love to be one of those mythical paragons of feminism and self-actualization who sees her face changing in the mirror and thinks: “My aging visage is evidence of the fact that I am still walking this blessed earth! I am so grateful to be alive! Fie on the patriarchy! Fie on conventional beauty standards!” And then maybe I’d go meditate or drink a cup of green tea or talk to a plant or something.

But you know what? Sometimes I feel like the pressure on women not to care about how their looks change as they age is just as strong as the opposing pressure to keep ourselves looking young and beautiful for as long as possible.

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I also think the whole conversation around aging/beauty leaves out a very important piece of the equation—that it’s not only about what’s happening on an aesthetic level that can be hard to accept. It’s also about what those aesthetic changes represent. Specifically, the passage of time.

It’s not particularly fun look in the mirror and see evidence of your mortality staring back at you.

It is also not fun to see a face that no longer quite matches the age you feel like on the inside. I recently read something in The Atlantic (which only comes once a month and therefore doesn’t hurt my soul) about how people feel on average 20% younger than their chronological age. I thought, OK, I feel about 40. Then I did the math: 17% younger than I actually am. Pretty close.

Let me just qualify all of this by saying I don’t sit around crying about my crows’ feet (which I actually rather like) or stewing about the slow, downward slide of my cheeks. Worrying about my appearance, or aging in general, takes up only a teensy bit of my emotional and intellectual energy, and whining at length about it would be vain, stupid, and downright annoying. (Speaking of which, this post is almost over.)

But I do think it’s OK to be real about this stuff—to admit to ourselves and our friends and maybe even our kids that it’s hard to see yourself changing. It’s hard to feel yourself gradually losing the power that youth and beauty afford (regardless of whether or not you like that they afford power; they do). It’s hard to know that things will continue to progress: the spots will multiply, the wrinkles will proliferate, and more and more little baby foxes will be able to fit beneath your eyes. It’s hard to know that there’s no going back.

Maybe it will get easier. Maybe it’s especially tricky now because I’m at this middle-age pivot-point, where suddenly the changes in my body seem to be acclerating. Maybe in ten or fifteen years, I’ll cease to give a shit what my skin looks like, and will whole-heartedly embrace my inner crone. That would be nice. But until then, I’m not going to pretend I’m above it all.

Pass the eye cream.

All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but if you like my work, consider upgrading to a paid subscription. I promise not to use the money for Botox. Yet.

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P.S. It’s less than a month ‘til The Society of Shame is inflicted upon the world!! The Tour of Shame is shaping up, and I’d love to see YOU at an upcoming event! Here’s what’s on the calendar so far…..

April 6, 7pm: Porter Square Books, Cambridge, MA

April 10, 7:30pm: Boswell Books / Milwaukee Reads, at Shully’s A.T.S. Tickets required.

April 12, 7pm: Women & Children First,Chicago, IL

April 14, 7pm: Prairie Lights, Iowa City, IA

April 17,  7pm: P&T Knitware, New York, NY

April 19,  6pm: Fairfield University Bookstore, Fairfield, CT

April 27, 7pm: Wellesley Books, Wellesley, MA

April 29, Newburyport Literary Festival. Details TBA

May 4, 7pm Dire Literary Series (virtual event)

May 11, 10 am: Buttonwood Books “Coffee With the Authors,” at the Cohasset Lightkeeper’s House, Cohasset, MA.

May 17, 4pm:  Authors Love Bookstores (virtual event)

May 17, 6pm: Longfellow Books, Portland, ME

May 20, 1-3 pm, In-store signing, Sherman’s Book Shop, Freeport, ME location

June 20, 7 pm, Concord Free Library, Concord, MA

P.P.S. I really enjoyed doing this interview about my book over at Library Thing. They asked excellent questions—about internet scandals, the perils of social media, shame culture, and more. And I managed to work cabbage throwing into my answers, which I’m quite proud of.

13 Ways of Looking at a Rotisserie Chicken

With (slight) apologies to Wallace Stevens.

I

Among twenty things I could potentially make for dinner

The only thing calling to me

Was the rotisserie chicken 

II

I warmed

Like a heat lamp in a display case

In which there are rotisserie chickens

III

Visions of chickens whirled in my mind—specifically ones with crispy, slightly overcooked wings

It is a small part of their tantalizing chicken-ness

IV

A rotisserie chicken and another rotisserie chicken 

Are too much.

But a man and a woman and two children and one rotisserie chicken, and a baguette or some rice, and a salad, or maybe some microwave-in-the-bag green beans

Are perfect.

V

I do not know which to prefer,   

The rotisserie chicken for dinner  

Or what’s left of it the next day,

On a bed of greens, for lunch

Making me feel like: Yes! I’m having vegetables and lean proteins! I’m so freaking healthy!

VI

Rotisserie chickens filled the roasting-thingy behind the deli counter   

Behind fogged glass

An employee was there,

Crossing, to and fro.   

The mood

Lifted after I got her attention and said, “Excuse me, hi, there are no more rotisserie chickens in the case. Will you be putting more out soon?”

And she was like, “Yeah, in about five minutes.”

VII

O harried people of America, one might ask—probably someone French

Why do you worship these golden birds?

Do you not see how the rotisserie chicken

Has a ton of sodium and probably other additives in it

and comes from factory farms?   

VIII

I know

And know that my family is probably sick of rotisserie chicken

But I know, too,   

That I am exhausted

So shut the hell up.

IX

When the rotisserie chicken was nestled in my cart  

It marked the end

Of one of many kinds of suffering

X

At the sight of a rotisserie chicken 

Gleaming, steaming, on the cutting board on the dining room table

Even that annoying European

Would eat it. No question.

XI

The rotisserie chicken rode over the roads

In the back of my Subaru

Once, a fear pierced him,   

In that he mistook   

The shadow of a gallon of milk

For another rotisserie chicken  

Poor guy. Didn’t he read the part of the poem where I said that two rotisserie chickens are too much?

XII

I am catching up on emails and having a glass of wine at 6:30 pm, instead of cooking.

The rotisserie chicken must be warming in the oven.  

XIII

It was waiting in the fridge all afternoon.   

The puddle of fat it sat in was congealing 

But now, it is glistening and hot   

The rotisserie chicken sits 

In the cedar-limbs of my heart.

Or something.

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P.S. If you like grocery-related humor: Quiz: Do you know how to buy groceries?

P.P.S. Pub day for The Society of Shame is just over a month away! Boston area folks: I hope you’ll join me at my launch event at Porter Square Books, Cambridge, on Thursday, April 6 at 7pm. (Rotisserie chickens available at the Star Market next door, if you need one.) For the deets on other events, in Massachusetts, Maine, Connecticut, New York, Chicago and elsewhere, check out my full tour schedule. Thank you!