Laurie Boris's Blog, page 4

The United States of France

Note: this is the continuing adventures of the time-traveling Founding Fathers. You can find the last installment here.

Before their exploration of the United States of France could commence, the Founding Fathers decided on a respite. After procuring dishes containing something called “poutine” from a park vendor sympathetic to traveling cosplayers without financial means—Franklin poured out his charm and promised the man would be handsomely repaid—the trio of time-travelers sat on a bench and, in quiet contemplation, ate and watched the children play. Along with their general discombobulation, the question of what had become of the republic for which they had once stood demanded a few moments to regroup.

Jefferson was the first to break their silence. “Indeed this children’s game of kicking the black-and-white ball to and fro is an interesting diversion,” he said. “But I am astounded as to how our original thirteen colonies became French. Perhaps, after our repast, we can go in search of a library.”

“If indeed those still exist in this brave new world of continental design,” Adams said.

“Adams,” Jefferson scolded. “You must give the people more faith.”

He harumphed. “As far as I’m concerned, the only good to come out of France is pastry, Voltaire—”

“And the ladies,” Franklin said, raising a finger. “Never forget about the ladies. There was one in particular…”

“Yes, Ben,” Jefferson said. “We all know about the ladies. Never forget that I succeeded you in the French ambassadorship. I could barely move a step without some creature of the fairer sex inquiring as to your health and meting out subtle tests to see if I would be as charming.”

“My apologies, Thomas,” Franklin said with a chuckle. “Apparently mine were monstrous shoes to fill.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Adams said. “If you two roosters could control your crowing for a moment. Do you suppose our treaty with the French to get their assistance in our revolution could have been an inflection point where the timeline diverged and became…this?”

Jefferson appeared to be contemplating the graceful skyline, then said, “You’ve got a point, John. Ben and I were both involved in the negotiations.”

“One of you more than the other,” Adams said, eyeing Dr. Franklin.

Jefferson looked aghast. “John, what are you suggesting?”

“I’ve always had my suspicions about that treaty,” Adams said. “I’ve heard that there was more to the negotiation than that which was signed.”

Adams and Jefferson both turned to Franklin. The apples of Ben’s cheeks pinked. “Can the pair of you keep a secret?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Adams said.

“Then so can I.” Franklin winked at him.

“He did something,” Adams said. “I know he did something.”

“Save your breath, Johnny,” Jefferson said. “He’s determined to keep his own counsel on the matter.”

“Can we change this?” Adams said to Franklin. The man from New England turned to Jefferson and said, “Surely we can return to that spot and we two might be able to convince the Franklin of that era not to sell our fledgling republic down the river for a little—”

“Careful, John,” Jefferson said. “This is now treason you’re implying.”

The trio once again fell silent. John Adams stewed in his sour face. Franklin watched the children. Jefferson’s brow furrowed in thought.

Finally, Jefferson spoke. “I fear the madness in the thither-and-yon of what we’re doing, Ben. That any point in the past where we insert ourselves will have increasingly erratic effects for the future. Yes, the Philadelphia of this decade indeed looks like a haven of peace and prosperity, but who knows what other geographical areas and populations might be suffering? All because of our zeal for these adventures.”

Franklin pressed a hand to his own chest. “We abolished the practice of slavery in America, Thomas. Surely you agree that it was the right thing to do.”

“Well, yes, Ben. I agree to that. It’s the absence of any control over the resulting situation that troubles me. It troubles me greatly.”

“We had no control when walked off the public stage and let our descendants carry on the business of governing America,” Franklin said. “Conflicts would arise. War would happen. Allegiances would be tested. Such is the stuff of the human condition. Such is the stuff of democracy. It’s untidy and quite loud and contentious, at times, but tell me a system that is better.”

“Maybe we should stay off the stage, then,” Jefferson said. “We did what we could—more than what we originally thought we could. Can’t we let that be enough?”

Silence fell again.

“But it was so much fun,” Franklin said. He sighed, then continued, more brightly. “I believe there could still be a method whereby we can travel and not insert ourselves into history.”

“It has indeed been fascinating to see more of the world than nature has allowed,” Jefferson said. “And John, I know you’re a Puritan, but surely you yearn for more adventure than your corporeal lifespan has allowed?”

Adams said, “If I were being utterly frank I would have to begrudgingly admit that there have been…embers.”

“Ah.” Franklin clapped his hands together. “There’s my boys. What delightful adventures we will have.”

“Dr. Franklin,” Jefferson began, “what might you suggest as our next stop in the fabric of time? Given that you believe there’s a method by which we could stay out of time.”

Franklin waved at one of the children, more accurately at his young, lovely mother, then said, “My first suggestion is that as this cosplaying business is an accepted mode of comportment here, we take the opportunity to enjoy this beautiful afternoon. When in Rome, as they say.”

Adams frowned. “As who says?”

“You really ought to keep up, John.” Franklin rose, straightened his waistcoat, turned to his compadres. “The first order of business, I suggest, is that we honor the debt for our repast.”

“Are you forgetting we have no funds?” Adams said.

“I have a plan.”

Adams leaned toward Jefferson. “Indeed most of my nightmares begin with Franklin saying ‘I have a plan.’”

“Just follow my lead, gentlemen.”

“God help us,” Adams said, while they trailed Franklin to a more populated area of the park. Most of the denizens shared features with the little girl who’d first approached them—dark hair, dark eyes, a complexion of a light oak hue—but there were plenty enough who were different to suggest that the United States that was now of France continued to honor her promise to immigrants from all countries.

“Do you remember, Thomas,” Franklin said as they walked. “How the entertainers in Paris would literally sing for their suppers?”

“Yes, Ben. Some were quite delightful. But as for your singing—”

Franklin stopped. Smiled at Jefferson. “Then please do me the favor of holding my chapeau.”

Franklin cleared his throat, stood taller, and put out his arms as if in invitation. “Good people, gather ‘round,” he began in impeccable French. “For I, as Dr. Benjamin Franklin, am about to offer for your pleasure the wisdom of Poor Richard and his Almanac. In the original English.”

Two people wandered over, eyes eager. More followed. Franklin, seeing the beginning of his audience form, started his recitation. Then more people came. And more. The hat filled with money. When Franklin drew his performance to a close, he thanked the audience most enthusiastically, and bowed to them as they began to drift away. A few fans stayed with Franklin, peppering him with questions, and he was happy to oblige.

“Dear God, look at him,” Adams, sotto voce. “The power he holds over the French. He worked some manner of devil’s bargain with Versailles to get the south on board, I’m sure of it.” Adams leaned toward Jefferson. “How much money did we make?”

A Republic, if You Can Keep It

I wrote this piece on July 4, 2024, as an American inspired by recent events thrust upon us by the Supreme Court. But I have often wondered what the United States would have become if our Founding Fathers hadn’t deferred the question of slavery to future generations. This piece is speculation, of course. Your actual mileage may vary.

—–

Somewhere in the ether of time, Thomas Jefferson said, “Dr. Franklin?”

“Yes, Tom?”

“I fear our American experiment may be failing.”

Old Ben Franklin sighed. “I have always feared that, my boy. Then again, after the ratification of the Constitution, we did warn that democracy is not—what was that absolutely perfect phrase I heard the last time we went traveling—a spectator sport.”

“I am reluctant to suggest another adventure in time,” Jefferson said, “but as a founding co-parent of this republic, I burn to do something.”

“Co-parent?”

“You are not the only one of us who can evolve, Dr. Franklin.”

“Then I say we act, and we act now.”

“Is that John Adams speaking to us from the void?” Franklin said. “More importantly, is that same John Adams urging immediate redress, instead of playing the part of a mule, hooves dug into the ground?”

“You know very well it’s me, Franklin. And this is no joking matter. I have generations of descendants down there, as do both of you, and I could not rest in peace for one moment knowing that our vision for America is rapidly deteriorating into the very type of government many of us spilled our blood and gave our lives to reject.”

“Our Johnnie does have a point, Dr. Franklin,” Jefferson said. “How horrific would it be to watch power after power granted to the Executive Branch, until it is more representative of a monarchy than what we’d originally planned?”

“Yes,” Franklin added, “but how to do this without irrevocably changing the future? You saw the results of our last attempt. The Mexicans in camps, my friends. Remember the camps.”

There was more silence. “It’s a chance we’ll have to take,” Adams said finally. “There are a few strongly worded caveats I would like to append to our Constitution.”

“That’s my boy,” Franklin said. “To the time machine, then.”

They met in corporeal form and the usual sequence of events occurred. Flashing lights, whirring motors.

“In your zeal, Johnnie,” Franklin said, as the journey got underway, “have you considered a course of action? You remember the fights and compromise it took to get the thirteen original colonies to ratify the Constitution.”

“The slavery question,” Adams said. “We solve it.”

The other two men were silent for a long moment until Franklin said in an uncharacteristically small voice, “Johnnie. How?”

“We give Georgia and South Carolina no quarter,” Adams said. “They will undoubtedly threaten to secede. I say, let them.”

“John,” Jefferson said in disbelief. “Our fledgling Republic will surely die in its cradle without the South.”

“Not if we make them an offer they can’t refuse.” Adams paused. “Yes, I have taken a few language lessons from our previous journeys as well.”

By now they had arrived in Philadelphia in the summer of 1787. But Franklin had yet to open the doors. “Exactly what do you plan to do, Mr. Adams?” Franklin said. “What is this mysterious offer? And how do you devise to put this forth to the many landowners who would rather die than give up their free labor?”

“Not to mention,” Jefferson said, “compelling the 1787 version of yourself to make such an action.”

“I have a plan,” Adams said. “Now open this godforsaken door.”

“No,” Jefferson said, staying Franklin’s hand. “We must go back further. We must go to this self-same city, but in the year of our Lord 1775.”

“Tom,” Franklin said, with a wry smile. “Are we sharing the same thought?”

“If it’s adding the slavery clause back into our Declaration of Independence and making it stick this time, then yes. We are. And may I quote: ‘He has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating its most sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in another hemisphere, or to incur miserable death in their transportation thither…’—Shall I go on?”

“We remember, Tom,” Franklin said, adjusting his spectacles. “Sadly, we remember.”

“Then Heaven help us,” John said. “But I’m in agreement. Ending slavery from the start will mend a rift in the fabric of America that if left in the darkness and ignorance, will suppurate, leading to a civil war and the deaths of hundreds of thousands, brother against brother. Think of how this nation would thrive if that war is not waged. How it would truly allow all men and women to be created and treated as equal, as we intended from the start. The question that still confounds me is how we’re going to do it.”

“It’s simple, my boys,” Franklin said with a smile. “We’ll show them the future.”

“Are you daft, man?” Adams said. “It’s a tight enough fit with just the three of us in this contraption in our current forms. I don’t know how we’ll transport the whole delegation.”

“If you can’t get Mohammed to the mountain”—Franklin rejiggered the dials and the whirring and light-flashing resumed—“Bring the mountain to Mohammed. It’s time for a special edition of Poor Richard’s Almanack in which poor old Richard gets into his cups and has the most terrifying vision.”

—–

They arrived at the appointed time and place and Franklin, wishing he could have access to some of that new-fangled technology that puts the means of publication in his breast pocket, went about crafting a much shorter version of his usual yearly missive. By dawn, a stack of leaflets found itself on the doorstep of the Pennsylvania State House.

The three time travelers hung back and watched their fellow delegates grab copies and read. Comments came in bits and snatches, including some guffaws.

“It seems we’re being well received,” Franklin commented. “Myself included.”

“Don’t pat yourself on the back too hard yet, Franklin,” Adams said, frowning at the 1775 version of himself, a most disagreeable-looking and sweaty little man. “The proof is in the pudding. Or in this case, in the negotiation.”

“Is my nose really that big?” Jefferson said.

But then the real Thomas Jefferson stood, looking imposing drawn to his full height, and requested the floor. After being recognized, he implored the body to return the slavery clause to the document, then expounded on the whys and wherefores for a good hour. He had the full attention of the room. He even offered to free his own slaves, and give any who wished to stay and work on his estate a fair wage—and suggested other landowners should do the same—for the fair and equal future of America.

“Astounding, Tom,” Franklin said from his hidden perch with the other two time-traveling Founding Fathers. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

When that version of Jefferson concluded his speech, there was silence. 1775 Franklin rose and applauded. Then 1775 Adams did. As did each delegate in turn. But there was silence from the South. Georgia and South Carolina asked for a recess. When the body reconvened, both delegations announced that they’d be willing to reopen the debate, and entertained suggestions as to how to replace the lost revenue and labor.

“It’s working,” Adams whispered to Franklin, grabbing his arm. “I daresay it’s working.”

“Good show, gentlemen,” Jefferson said, as the three watched the back-and-forth, the end of debate, the call to vote.

The ayes won.

The traveling trio remained at the State House after the delegates went off to celebrate at the local pub.

“You’re awfully quiet, Tommy,” Franklin said.

After a long pause, Jefferson said, “In the end, though, will it hold? Given the human propensity to look away from our better angels?”

“I recall us having this same conversation shortly after we signed that document,” Adams said. “Over several tankards in that same tavern house.”

“The fundamental difference between then and now,” Franklin said, “is that we have the wherewithal to discover for ourselves what we have wrought. The question before us now is if we have the will to do it.”

“I fear we must,” Adams said. “For we were the agents of change, therefore we are burdened with the results.”

Back into the device with the whirring and the flashing. All grew quiet. The door slid open to reveal that they were at the edge of a lush forest of deciduous trees, mainly oak and maple, the air redolent of fresh earth and birdsong. Jefferson stepped out, looking upward in wonder, and touched the bark of a young maple as if in disbelief it was real. “What is this place?”

“I’d set our controls for Philadelphia, 2028.” He walked out into the future and looked behind him. “Ah. There it is. That’s quite a vision, I must say.”

Adams finally peered out, deemed it safe enough to exit, and joined the others.

There, across a broad, tended meadow of public space, replete with children playing and families out enjoying the sunshine, was a city like no other they’d seen in their travels. Towers of glass were interspersed with older buildings, some of the brick and stone variety they’d remembered from the earlier days of Philadelphia.

“Well, we haven’t burned it to the ground,” Franklin said, cloaking the craft, “so I suppose that’s a feather in our caps.”

They were startled by a shout, and a large black-and-white ball flying in their direction. The ball hit the ground, rolled, then came to a rest at the edge of the meadow. A dark-haired child sprinted toward them. Then saw them and stopped, eyes huge.

“Qui etes-vous?” the girl said.

“I’ll handle this,” Franklin said, then turned to the girl. “Nous sommes…ah, what is that blasted word? Nous sommes cosplayers.”

The girl smiled. “Ah. Oui, Cosplayers. C’est magnifique, votre costumes. Viens avec moi et rencontre mes amis? Vous ressemblez a Benjamin Franklin! Tres bien!”

“He is a favorite of mine,” Franklin said in French. “But tell me, young lady. Your French is impeccable. Did you learn to speak it in school?”

The girl looked puzzled. “Did you not? Are you immigrants?”

Adams cleared his throat. Franklin warned him off and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, we are. We’re from England. We travel all around the world, but we don’t know much about this country. We would love to learn more. Do you like living here?”

“Ah, oui!” The shouting behind her increased. “My friends. They want the ball. But yes. The USF is a most wonderful place to live. Excuse me. You can come play if you like.”

“We’ll be along presently,” Franklin said, and she waved as she ran back.

The three Founding Fathers huddled together. “The United States of…France?” Adams said.

“We became French,” Jefferson said.

Franklin shrugged. “There are worse things we could have become.”

They fell into silence, each keeping his own thoughts. Then Adams said, “Why did she only recognize you, Franklin?”

“It must be my special je ne sais quoi,” Franklin said, with a flourish of his hand, and strolled out into the meadow. “Shall we go exploring, gentlemen?”

This is part of a random series of stories I’ve written whereupon Benjamin Franklin creates a time machine and the inevitable hijinks ensue. You can one of them here.

Boychiks2Mensch-iks: A little Boychik and Self-Publishing News

There comes a time in every self-published author’s life where you’re faced with that big decision: what filter do you use on your headshot to make you look fifteen years younger, or should you just spring for the Botox already? Kidding. Mostly.

No. No Botox here. Not yet, anyway. I’m talking about the decision to keep your book exclusive to 800-lb publishing gorilla Amazon (some free goodies but limited distribution and some folks would rather try to talk the gorilla into getting Botox than hit that buy-with-one-click button) or choosing to “go wide” (readable on oodles of book-reading device or platforms but sometimes lower royalties and let’s face it, less popularity than Amazon).

I had that big conversation with myself, crunching numbers and researching hyaluronic acid treatments, and in the end, decided it’s time to share Boychik with the world. In the golden age of ebook publishing (the early 2010s), to publish a book far and wide, we’d just run it through Smashwords, using their system we lovingly called “the meatgrinder.”

Now that not-so-newcomer Draft2Digital has bought Smashwords (in what has been a very bumpy transition so far), we have another way to prepare and publish our work. D2D has a user-friendly interface, as opposed to Smashwords, who defiantly own their “1995 called and they want their portal back” vibe. You can actually preview what your book will look like, if there are errors you are alerted in plain English instead of Smashword’s cryptic rejections, and you get emails telling you which outlet your book has been uploaded to and accepted in. That last one is a small thing, granted, but that’s kind of fun. I don’t know what the heck some of those outlets are (Palace Marketplace, anyone?), but it’s still cool to see the progress. You can also gain access to the sites libraries shop in.

Also, Draft2Digital’s companion site, Books2Read, gives you one easy link that displays everywhere the book is being sold, which I think is one of their best features. Options are good. Making it easy for readers is also good.

There are drawbacks, of course. D2D doesn’t display any books I have exclusive to Amazon. Meh, I can live with that.

In other news that I probably should have started with, later this summer, Boychik will be available as an audio book. I’m thrilled with the voice of the narrator who is working with me, and I can’t wait to share it—with Brooklyn accents and everything.

Meanwhile, I’m almost done with the first draft of a sequel to Boychik, wherein boychiks become mensch-iks. But not in that Yiddish boy-band kind of way.

Have a nice day, and as always, thank you for reading.

Dr. Franklin’s Time Travel Contraption: A Journey Beyond Time

Author’s note: I wrote this piece in 2017 but for some reason didn’t publish it. Today, sitting down to write some flash fiction, a sequel popped out. So I figured I should post the first story before I get to the second one. As always, thank you for reading.

————

Tom could not believe any of this was real. Perhaps he’d had too much apple brandy and nodded off in his favorite armchair on the front porch and was having a wonderful dream. Again he brushed his fingers against the metallic walls, over the strange panel of what old Ben said he would use to control this odd contrivance. Tom had once envisioned a type of ship that could lift off the ground, made a few sketches, but that was years ago, in a fit of fancy, to entertain his grandchildren. Never had he imagined he could escape the bounds of earth without moving at all; never had he—

The very air next to Tom shivered, and into the seat adjacent to his popped a fusty and quite discontented little man. The man, whose expression shifted from confusion to annoyance, emitted a harrumph at where he found himself. “I was perfectly content in Massachusetts, Franklin, now will you kindly explain what is this foolishness and why it was so important to—”

Old Ben laughed. Dear God, Tom had missed that laugh. No. It had to be a dream. The esteemed Dr. Franklin had escaped his own mortal bounds years ago. And yet here they all were. Just as they had been in Philadelphia during the hottest summer he could recall.

“Mr. Adams,” Franklin said, “I will kindly explain my own foolishness if you keep yours to a dull roar.” Ben gestured to the instrument panel. To the turning gears and flashing lights of a design Tom could not in his mind disassemble. “I have created”—he paused, in what Tom recognized as the showman’s flourish he often used in Congress—“a device that will permit us to travel forward in time.”

John Adams’ mouth opened and closed like a fish in distress.

Tom could not resist. “Dr. Franklin, I do enjoy the few moments when our friend is rendered speechless. Good afternoon, John.”

“Yes, hello, Tom.” He spun back to Ben. “Travel forward in time? Seriously, have you been into your cups? And everyone else’s as well?”

“Perhaps,” Ben admitted. “But once I figured out how it could be done I couldn’t resist. And I could think of no two better men to accompany me on our maiden voyage.”

Adams’ fingers tightened on the armrests. “Are you meaning to say you’ve never tested this monstrosity?”

Franklin made a coy shrug.

“John.” Tom said, and gave his old friend a gentle smile. “Just take a good breath and consider the possibilities. This experiment we undertook in Philadelphia. The war we fought for our independence. The young country we both led. The concerns we have spent much of our retirement expressing in our correspondence. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious to know if it has stood the test of time?”

“Frankly, no,” Adams said. “If God had intended me to have that knowledge, He would allow me years enough to see it for myself.”

“I fear we will not have so many years,” Tom said. “I have no answer for Dr. Franklin’s presence, as our God does work in mysterious ways. But think on it, John. I know, better than most, that deep in your breast beats an inkling of curiosity.”

A long sigh escaped the man from Massachusetts. “Fine then,” Adams said. Let us see what God and our labors have wrought.”

And then Franklin went to work. Giddily tapping on buttons and turning dials. It was the oddest sensation. Like an ocean wave swam its way back and forth over Tom’s body. As if he were the ocean himself. Adams looked distinctly dyspeptic. Then, finally, the craft and the sensations stilled.

“Have we arrived?” Tom asked Ben.

“More importantly,” Adams said, “where and when have we arrived?”

“The seat of our modest government, two hundred and some years hence.” Ben pushed some buttons and pulled a lever, and inch by inch, a door at the side of the contraption slid open. Tom strained to see and hear and smell this new land they’d travelled to, but before his mind could fit all the pieces together, the three of them had been whisked out, as eerily as they’d been spirited into the conveyance. Which had now vanished.

Adams, as usual, seemed the most disturbed. His head spun left and right and he rounded on Franklin as if he’d just committed treason.

Franklin merely flipped a hand and strode forward. “It’s all taken care of. Tom, tell him not to worry so; it’s bad for the digestion.”

Tom was about to say something very much like that when he noticed that not only had the craft disappeared, they themselves seemed to be invisible to the veritable hordes of people they were now walking among and sometimes straight through. Men and women, of all nationalities and cultures. Shocking in their dress, some of them.

“This is it, Franklin?” John said. “This is our United States? This is our Washington?”

“The very same.”

While Tom and John were both absorbing how all had changed, Franklin was, as always, Franklin. Nothing seemed to ruffle that old turkey’s feathers. He stopped at a large, domed building, and as if he owned it, began striding up the granite stairs. The gout of his corporeal body seeming to not disturb him in the slightest.

“Gentlemen,” Franklin said, guided by some unknown force through doors and down corridors, “I give you our Congress.”

Tom held his breath. At the size of it. At the people—black and white, men and women. This truly was a dream. One in his private thoughts he’d hoped for, but never could believe. He slid a glance to Adams, and it was as if they were in agreement. If this was in some way, shape, or form not a dream, they would have much to discuss in their upcoming letters.

“Well,” Franklin said with a smirk. “From the arguments, I gather not all has changed in the future.”

As Franklin ushered them out and the doors closed behind them, a question came to Tom’s mind and he dared not voice it. But Adams beat him to it. “Franklin. Is the office of the presidency still intact?”

“My sources tell me it’s not far,” Franklin said. “Let’s find out.”

After a short walk, Franklin stopped. Adams’ mouth again dropped open. Tom could not immediately find the words.

“This looks…” Adams swallowed. “Franklin. This has a frightening resemblance to the palace at Versailles. This surely cannot be where…”

“Just wait,” Franklin said with a sigh.

A man walked by. Trailing such pageantry, such puffery. Such fawning flattery he might as well have been a king. Or worse. He stood before a small crowd that seemed to hang on his every utterance. Had the language changed so drastically? Was it indeed still English they were speaking? The tone with which he addressed the men and women dripped of disdain and impatience. He even cursed like a sailor at one of them, and Tom could almost sense the intake of John’s breath. And why was he so…orange?

“This man was indeed elected?” John sputtered. “By our people?”

“Truly, yes,” Franklin said. “As a wise man once said, we get the government we deserve.”

John’s eyes narrowed as again he turned accusingly on the good doctor. “You knew of this. This was not the maiden voyage of your contraption. You’ve been here before!”

Franklin lowered his gaze like a child caught in a lie. Then lifted his head. “True. I have.”

“Why, Ben?” Tom asked.

“I needed witnesses. And of all the men I’ve met, you are the two I’ve trusted most.”

Adams pulled himself up taller, which didn’t do much, only made him look more like a popinjay than he already was. “Franklin, can you still specify where your conveyance will take us?”

“I got us here, didn’t I?”

“Then get us somewhere else,” Adams said. “Get us to Philadelphia, 1787. We have some changes to make to that Constitution.”

Literally, A Little Housekeeping

It’s been a long and difficult year for me and my family, and I know I’m not alone. But I’m trying to look forward. First task is getting my house back in shape. The place looks like something the “Hoarders” producers would look at and say, “Nah. Nobody would believe this is real.”

I started with the books (Because books). There’s one print copy of Boychik left and I would LOVE to send it to you. If you want, I’ll sign it for you or for somebody you want to give it to. I’m not asking you to pony up a thing—just answer one question in this Rafflecopter window: What are you reading? Why do I ask? Because I’m always looking for a good book to read. And because I’m nosy.

One small disclaimer: giveaway only valid in the US. Sorry, friends in other places. Rafflecopter runs through 1/8 and will choose a winner at random.

I wish you peace and love and health for 2024.

Thank you for reading,

Laurie

PS: I’m reading The Overstory, and the writing is so lovely I want to read it very slowly—as my friend and editor David Antrobus said, “at the speed of trees.”

The Void

You climb the highest landmark you can find on the darkest of nights and scream. You scream and scream and scream. You call them idiots and murderers and morons and fascists and all of the seven words you can’t say on television. And then you stop. You’re standing on the highest rock on the highest place you could find and you are tired. Your jaw hurts from screaming, your head aches, you could use a trip to the chiropractor and wonder when they open in the morning. You take great deep breaths of the soft damp air, and for the first time look into the space you just violated with your frustrations. It’s the kind of quiet that city people think is quiet. Night insects chirrup and owls hoot and a light breeze rattles what’s left of the leaves and traffic hums from the nearby highway. All is not dark. All is not empty. You rest.

Then a voice pierces through like a knife. “Hey. Asshole.”

You flinch, nearly lose your balance atop the rock. Your shoulders tighten and you wonder if you should answer. But the words come without thought intervening. “What? Me?”

“Yeah, you, ya putz. You up there screamin’ into the void. Feel better now?”

“Um. Actually, no.”

“Didn’t think so. Nobody really does, poor bastards.”

You look all around, see nothing. “Who…are you? Where are you?”

“Doesn’t matter. All that matters is you, right? You’re scared, you’re angry, you don’t know what else to do so you come up here and piss off my dog and wake the whole freakin’ neighborhood.”

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—” A now-embarrassed little part of you thought you were talking to God. Why God has a Southie accent and calls you names also troubles you. No. Couldn’t be.

The voice of whatever it is continues. “Of course you didn’t realize, ya schmuck. Everything’s about you. How it makes you feel, how it affects you, blah blah blah. But did you ever, just for one hot minute, put yourself in someone else’s shoes? Like mine, for instance? You ever think about what it’s like to be in my Cons? Huh? A guy’s down here trying to get a good night’s sleep and he’s got these morons screaming shit at him every other minute.”

“I’m…sorry?”

“Yeah, you’re sorry. You’re all sorry. Tell me something. You registered to vote?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t act all high and mighty about it, that’s the least you could do. You know folks who aren’t?”

You feel a little smaller now. Your voice comes out in a squeak. “Probably.”

“Then go scream at them. Maybe find a few websites about voting and shit, and make friends, and get shit done. You with me?”

You can only manage a whisper now. “Yeah.”

“Now get the fuck out of here. Scream into a pillow or something. Take an Ambien. Just leave me alone. Christ. I gotta put up a sign.”

The Most Recommended Books of 2023

Last week I wrote about Ben Fox’s new book recommendation site, Book Shepherd. Not only does he ask authors to propose categories for their own recommendation lists, but recently, he asked the authors who have submitted lists to chime in with their favorite reads of the past year, and why those books resonated with them.

Here are mine.

You might see a pattern in my favorites – I love being drawn into the world of a novel and falling in love with the characters. This was especially important for me this year because I spent a few months in a rehab facility waiting for my injuries to heal, and reading was my handiest method of escape.

What other authors had to say

As part of Ben Fox’s project, he combined the lists so we could see what all the authors and super-readers in the group recommended. You can check that out here—the list will keep growing through December. I’ve already added a bunch to my already overflowing TBR list.

Happy reading!

Is there a better way to find a book?

Ben Fox at The Book Shepherd has a great idea about improving book recommendations. I like the way my friend Meeks breaks it down, so thought I’d share.

Ben Fox…the man behind Shepherd

The Photograph

Joey’s pulse raced when his parents said they were going out and Meghan would be babysitting, although he tried not to look too excited. He liked her better than the others, not because she was pretty or nice or did babysitter-y things like make cookies or play games with him. But because most of the time, she watched TV or talked on the phone with her friends and basically left him alone. Sometimes he thought she didn’t like babysitting or even kids, but he never ratted her out.

Especially tonight, he was glad it would be Meghan because he had a plan and needed to keep it secret. When his parents were busy with other things, he mumbled something about homework and went into his room. He opened his backpack and took out the big spiral notebook with the pockets in the back, and pulled out the photograph. It was a page he’d torn from a magazine at the dentist’s waiting room when no one else was there, then quickly stashed it away. Since then he’d folded and unfolded it so many times that the creases were as soft as cotton, but he could still see everything important. He’d already made numerous renderings of the man’s face in his sketchpad with colored pencil—the painted lips, the delicate contours of his cheeks, the super-long lashes. The man was wearing makeup and a wig and a dress that made him look like a woman. A very beautiful woman, like a movie star at the Oscars. At first Joey only knew he was a man because of the caption on the photograph, but he’d torn that away, so if anyone saw his sketches, or the picture, they’d think it was a woman and not bother him about it.

So far, nobody had.

He ached to once again recreate that face, that beauty, but now he had a different idea. He’d been thinking about it for weeks. And every time he thought about it, and the shoebox under his bed, he blushed and felt afraid to even try. What if he got caught? His heart raced again; his cheeks flamed with heat. He took some deep breaths like he saw on the internet another night when Meghan was babysitting, and he started feeling calmer.

While his parents talked about who was driving and where they’d park and what to do if they saw certain people they didn’t want to run into—which usually fascinated him—Joey tried to play it cool. When Meghan came, he made the necessary polite talk then his parents left and Meghan flopped onto the sofa and grabbed the remote and said to let her know if he needed anything.

Joey nodded and, a little lightheaded, walked as normally as he could back into his room and eased the door closed. He sat on the bed. Rubbed his hands over his eyes. Thought about how he would start. Funny how drawing on a piece of paper felt so easy to him. But nearly impossible when he thought about how to do it on his own face—the canvas he knew infinitely better than any sketchpad in the world.

He slipped to the floor and retrieved the shoebox from beneath the bed. Opened it and, as always, felt the marvel and shame at the contents within. There was the lipstick he’d stuffed into his jacket when the clerk wasn’t looking. Ditto the mascara, the eyeliner, the shadows, the little bottle of foundation that didn’t quite match the tone of his skin, but to take any longer to match his face to the chart on the shelf felt too risky. He also had some wipes that the internet said he’d need to remove it all. He’d studied his mother’s makeup on afternoons when his parents were at work, or other nights when Meghan was engrossed in some stupid TV show, and learned which little tubes and pots and bottles did what, carefully replacing each item in her dressing table drawers. He didn’t dare use any of it for fear he’d leave evidence, but he made a mental list of everything he needed to acquire. And here it was, and here he was, and he slipped across the hall to nab his mother’s hand-mirror and returned to the safety of his bedroom.

He sat cross-legged on the bed, shoebox before him, and examined his face. His pale freckled skin and light green eyes, the way his nostrils flared when he wiggled his nose, the way his jaw looked a tiny bit more angular lately, a feature his aunt crowed to his mother about, a marker, she said, that he was growing into a handsome young man.

Joey did not feel handsome. He looked nothing like the older boys at school. Very often he felt like…nothing. He wanted to feel like the man in the magazine photo—dressed as a woman he looked so confident and happy with himself, not caring what anyone else thought. But those thoughts made Joey blush with shame and want to throw the box in the trash but then he feared that his parents would find it and his mother would know it wasn’t her makeup and then there would be questions.

He didn’t want to answer questions. Just like he’d dared himself to steal the lipstick, he dared himself now to open it. He swiveled the fire-engine red column of waxy stuff up, looked at it a while before smoothing it over his lower lip the way he’d seen a woman on a TV show do it. It felt thick and sticky when he smacked his lips together. It looked funny to see it on his face, but a good kind of funny. He reminded himself that it was just like sketching, and after a while he lost himself in the application of the different media to his new canvas.

He was so lost he didn’t hear the footsteps, the voice, the knock on his door, but he definitely saw Meghan as she walked in and started to say, “Joey, you’ve been so quiet, are you—?” Then she said, “What are you doing?”

She hadn’t said it in a scolding way, more of a curious one, but still, he was so afraid that he froze, staring at her face. He peed himself a little. But he didn’t notice that until later. “I… I… It’s for school. I’m in a play. I wanted to practice…”

She tilted her head. “Do you want any help?”

“I think… I—”

“Shove over.” He moved like a reflex as she sat beside him and grabbed the package of remover wipes and snapped one out like she’d been doing this all her life. “You look like one of my little sister’s dolls. Mind if we start again?”

And this time she waited for him to answer. He’d hate the idea of someone erasing a sketch he’d made, but he obviously had no idea what he was doing, so he nodded, and she cleaned his face.

He watched her as she worked. Her eyes had this great lost-focused look in them, and he wondered if that was what he looked like when he drew. Her hands were gentle but expert as she dabbed this here and that there, told him to open his eyes wide for one thing and close them for another.

Not once did she ask him what play it was, which role he had, and even if this was his mother’s makeup. She couldn’t have helped not seeing the magazine page on the bed, because he didn’t get a chance to whisk it away.

“There,” she said finally, with a smile, and handed him the mirror. “You’re gorgeous.”

He stared. And stared and stared and stared. He wasn’t the man in the photo, but he looked really pretty. A little bit like his mom, maybe.

“I always thought you’d make a beautiful girl,” Meghan said.

But then the shame returned, and he felt as if the heat from his face would melt all the layers of stuff she’d painted on him.

“Don’t worry.” She frowned then smoothed a spot above his brow with a finger. “I won’t tell your parents.” Meghan lowered her voice as if his parents might hear the words hanging in the air when they returned. “My older brother does drag. I help him with his makeup sometimes.”

He screwed up his nerve to ask a question. “Does he…is that what he does, like, for a job?” He gestured to the magazine page. “Like that?”

Meghan looked at the picture more closely. “Well. That guy is like, famous. He makes a lot of money. My brother has fun with it, and does a lot of shows and makes a little bit of money, but he waits tables and stuff to pay the bills. Do you…think you might like to do something like that one day?”

It had never really occurred to him before that it could be a thing to do instead of just a dare or a new art project. “I don’t…”

“Well. You should definitely talk to your parents about it. My brother was super afraid to, cause my folks can be kind of judgey and yours seem a little…well, they’re real nice and all, but—anyway, when my brother told my mom and dad they were a little weirded out at first, but now they’re his biggest fans.”

Joey thought about that for a long time. He thought about that as he stared into the mirror. As she helped him take the makeup off and hide the evidence, and long into the night after his parents returned and Meghan went home and he sat up in bed staring at the picture of the man Joey now knew was famous for dressing up like a woman.

Maybe he did want to do that. Someday. But the next morning, as his father came into the kitchen and gave him a soft fist-tap to his only-recently-angling jaw and said, “You’re growing up too fast, little man,” Joey couldn’t imagine ever telling his parents.

Boychik Continues!

One day I’ll tell you the story of where I’ve been since June, but for now I’d like to share an excerpt of the sequel to Boychik, as yet untitled (suggestions welcome!) because I’m so thrilled to discover that I’d actually written some thirty-odd pages of it before I broke both of my legs. More on that later.

———————

Brooklyn Heights, April 1933

For the first time in months, Harold Weissman woke up feeling almost happy, and when he looked in the gilded bathroom mirror, for the first time in months didn’t see a guy who was the biggest schmuck in the world. He smiled at his reflection as he prepared to shave, and allowed himself to think about a future that didn’t include a certain girl and the putz who came between them. He instead thought about the day before him. Nice weather, lunch with his boys, an easy job that promised a fine payday, and later that night, a date with an angel. He could already imagine the smell of her perfume, his hand sliding along her soft curves in the back seat of his Packard. He was still humming a little tune to himself when he practically danced downstairs for breakfast. His father, hunkered down in his usual place at the table, nursed a cup of coffee and glowered into the newspaper.

“I been thinking,” his mother said, as she set a plate of shiny scrambled eggs in front of her only son.

“Aw, Ma”—Harold grinned as he took a seat—“you know that’s bad for your health.”

“Hey. Treat your mother with some fucking respect.” His father then disappeared back into his paper.

She pursed her lips and, with her own coffee, insinuated herself into her chair. After a sip, she set the cup into a saucer. But he could still feel whatever those thoughts were radiating off her like heat lines on fresh asphalt.

“Okay,” Harold said, after he’d gobbled down a mouthful of egg. “I’m listening serious now.”

She leaned toward him. “I’m thinking it’s high time you ask for the ring back. This mishegas has gone on far too long already.”

“Come on, Ma.” And now he felt like that schmuck again. Getting that goddamn note two weeks before their wedding. “You know she flew the coop. Nobody’s got any idea where she went.” Pummeling that putz Abramowitz had given him no answers, and only only the briefest of satisfaction. “Or if they do, they’re not telling me.”

“Then I’m going to pay a call on Celia Rosenstein and ask her myself.”

The newspaper came down. “Lillian. Stay out of this.”

Lillian gave her husband a savage grin. “Well, then, Lou, you talk to him. You call her father and demand she return the ring, or else he should owe us the money for what it cost. This wasn’t some wholesale deal from your friends on Seventh Avenue, it was from Tiffany’s!”

“Ma. I don’t care about the ring.”

“Of course you don’t. Your father paid for it.”

Sure, remind me again that I’m nothing without him, Harold thought. “Please, I’m begging you. Let it go.”

“No, I will not. It’s just not right. It’s just not done!”

“Oh, for the love of… Ma. I’ll talk to him about it. Maybe we can work out a deal. Just. Please. Stop.”

“Fine.” She rose elegantly from the table, snatched up her coffee. “When we have recompense, I’ll stop.”

Harold looked over at his father for backup, but the newspaper rose between them.