Dear Reader,
I started writing about burnout and self-care, and the more I wrote, the more I thought, “No, this is garbage, no one needs to read this.” So we’re not doing that this week.
I really love that about writing. I like that about the process. I like that later I can go back, read what I wrote, and think, “Huh, is that really what I thought I think? Well, I’m not sure I agree with that at all.” Some people seem to commit harder to the thoughts they’ve expressed, but I think I swing the other direction—that having expressed an idea, I find it easier to interrogate it, pull it apart, and if it doesn’t stand up, to let it go.
So instead, I’m going to share a poem, sort of on-theme for this newsletter:
Ages of My Life If It Were Made of Romance Novels
Seventeen.There is this new thing called the internet, and there is a boy on the other end of it.You meet in a chatroom. Soon you talk every day. He is funny. He is so smart.He teaches you how to say things like lol and *cries*.He has a girlfriend.He tells you this, in chat, and you stare at your screen, mortified,and then he says, “But something happened to me a few weeks ago”and you are determined to be incurious, be cool, and you say,“Oh, what was that?”and he says, “I met someone online…”Suddenly you are breathless, literally breathless, on a precipice of wordsin your ladybug pajamas in your dark bedroom, hands over the keyboard, frozen and electric.Yes. He means what you think he means. He adores you. It feels just like all the stories said it would.He breaks up with the girlfriend.He starts telling you, As you wish and Ditto. And then later, I love you.You take a plane across the country, and you meet.You go to a movie theater to see The Matrix, and he drives you down all the back roadsin a place like none you’d seen before, all dusty bluffs and brittle grasses, stark and beautiful.Back at his house you watch The Fifth Element and make out during the opera scene.If this were a romance novel, he would have the perfect kiss.His dad makes you steak and sautéed mushrooms and your first artichoke.You can still taste it. You can still feel the pull of leaves between your teeth.
Nineteen.You are four thousand miles from home, living on rye pastries and egg butter.An artistic free-spirit adopts you as a friend.She gives you a makeover before a party,an hour in a close intimate bubble, fingers delicately pressedagainst your cheek as she studies your eyelashes,applies one more coat of mascara.Her breath is sweet as she leans in closeand gently blows a stray eyelash from your cheek.You talk about writing and art and the world, andshe is all passion and animation, soft curls and green eyes.If this were a romance novel, she would have broken things off with her absent fiancéand you would have taken her out for terrible pizza and pear cider.You would have kissed her under the cold clear sky.
Twenty.There is this boy from your writing workshop.You are friends. He has a girlfriend.You spend a lot of time together. You are just friends.He has long hair and tapered punk sideburns. He’s a photographer.He breaks up with his girlfriend. You are a supportive friend.You come down with a stomach bug and miss class,and he brings you soup, and you sit together.And you trace your fingers across his knuckles, and down the back of his hand,and across his palm, and back again, and he lets you.You have no idea what you’re doing. There is no thought to this. It’s just a perfect moment.And then a few days later, you go out on a dateat a Mexican restaurant, and you get the pollo con mole,and later you kiss. Another time you spend the night.You cook for each other.You move in together.He writes and writes. He is so beautiful, this tender-hearted punk.He takes you mountain biking, and you move to the desert.On your birthday, it snows, and he takes you for a cold picnic lunchto the top of the red-rock mesa, to look out on the valley through the snow.When he turns the car off, you can hear the snow falling, in one long hush.
Twenty-four.You are just starting law school. You are new in town.You meet a guy online. You hook up.You start dating.He’s kind of an asshole, but you like him.One of his tattoos is for the Ironman he did two years ago. He’s training for a triathlon now.He gets you lifting weights. He’s a good lifting partner,but he’s kind of a shit boyfriend.You like him anyway.You meet his family. You’re not sure you like them.He meets your family. They’re not sure they like him.You talk about moving in together. You find out he’s messing around with another girl online.This is not a very good romance novel.
Twenty-five.She’s good friends with one of your friends.You think she has a girlfriend, which perversely makes you feel safe flirting with her,since clearly it doesn’t mean anything.If this were a romance novel, it would turn out to mean something.Maybe that day you’re sitting in the back of the lecture halland under the table you pull up the hem of your skirt to show her the satin elastic top of your thigh-high stockings(and just why are you wearing stockings to your class on tax law?)and she says, Oh Jesus.You hold that oath close as a kiss.
Twenty-seven.You meet at a party. You are not a good guestbecause you just spend the whole time talking to this one guy.He’s a former video game developer. He’s going back to grad school for math. He is adorable.You give him your email address, and he asks you out for lunch.When he walks you back to campus afterward,you kiss him on the cheek, and you have never seen a boy look so delighted.You want to see that again.It’s almost too easy. You both fall so fast.You have plans to visit a friend across the country, and on your long drive back,he spends two hours on the phone with you, helping you stay awakeso you can be safe, so you can get home to him.He has a colorful cast of friends, and you love them.He has a colorful Polish family, and they love you.You move in together, into an attic apartment that is all angles and gables.You find that he keeps eating all your candy,so you start buying dark chocolate for yourself because he doesn’t care for dark chocolate,and he objects, and then he eats the dark chocolate anyway.If this were a romance novel, this would be cute,and then he would start buying the chocolate.(But then, if this were a romance novel, you wouldn’t be secretly in love on the side.)(I mean, not in love. He’s just a friend. He has a girlfriend. It was always impossible.)(He encouraged you to go out with math guy. He’s so happy for you, to see you happy.)(You dance at his wedding.)(You still hang out. You have rambling conversations spiked with fire and laughter.)(He drinks too much, but he’s trying.)(It’s possible you shared some revealing details over drinks. Never mind.)(He only kissed you the once. It was practically chaste.)(No one ever needs to know about any of this.)
Thirty-one.You break things off with the plumber you’ve been seeing.You say, “I think I just need to quit dating for a while.Really I’d like to meet someone with no romantic expectations at all,maybe through a friend or at work or something.”And then it turns out that’s what happens.And yeah, it makes for a pretty good romance novel.
Forty.I’m not sure how post-apocalyptic dystopian mayhemis going to work as a romance novel.Let’s find out.
*****
Alright, switching gears:
Today’s actual novel to share is The Forgotten Deadby Jordan L. Hawk. This was a fun read about a professor of parapsychology teaming up with a band of ghost-hunters to confront a haunted house with a traumatic connection to the professor’s own childhood. The ghost hunter side of the story was very well drawn, with compelling details about aspects like how to responsibly explore an abandoned house. The professor, Nigel, is very likeable and makes a plausible professor of parapsychology; I would’ve liked to see a little bit more of what that entails, though I thought the book still worked without it. (Hoping we get more of Daily Life of a Parapsychology Professor in the next book.) The lead of the ghost-hunting team, Oscar, is also very likeable, and I thought there was an interesting balance achieved in creating a character who is a natural medium, who was raised to reject what he saw and live in fear that he was going crazy, who nonetheless picks up a hobby exploring abandoned sites for potential hauntings. And then when Oscar is ready to start believing what he sees, I really loved the way that Hawk uses Oscar’s college football career as a skillset to draw on for mediumship. Unlikely transferable skills are just candy to me.
From a heat-level/intimacy perspective, this was downright chaste, in a way that I found consistent with the characters and story. This relationship starts on the footing of Nigel securing the professional services of Oscar’s team, and both characters are very aware of not wanting to violate professional boundaries. And then there’s a night when the whole team needs to stay at a motel, and I have to say, I sort of loved it that Hawk had the characters sharing a room that actually had two beds. Like, this would have been an easy moment to pull an “only one bed,” and maybe I’m overthinking this, but I just thought it ended up feeling like a cute nod to that trope without actually taking it that direction. So, there does end up being a very sweet relationship arc and with a little cuddling and kissing, but no outright steamy bits.
The Forgotten Dead releases April 15, 2022. I’m already looking forward to the next book.
The snow has been melting where I am, and it’s starting to maybe feel like spring? In this corner of the world, one learns not to pin too much hope on March, but it smells like mud and the birds are singing like crazy, so hope comes calling.
Love,
Beas
