I'm having an affair
With a book, I mean.
It started back in late August.
I was on a solo hike, bagging one of my last 4000 footers in New Hampshire, enjoying the scenery, loving the workout. It was good to feel fully in the zone (a zone, anyway) because the truth was, I’d been sort of antsy over the previous few months—frustrated by the lack of passion I felt. I was trying so hard to be present and enthusiastic, and yet I was plagued by doubts: Is this right? Should it feel like this much work?
It was like the spark was missing. We just weren’t connecting.
I found myself fantasizing about other possibilities—other directions I could go if I broke things off. And then, as I was climbing my way up an extra beautiful stretch of trail, approaching the edge of the treeline, suddenly there it was—looking right at me, smoldering and sparking, gorgeous and sexy and undeniably right: a new idea for novel. With an absolutely killer title. I could see the whole story laid out in front of me, and I knew that it would be a total blast to write.
I tried to resist; of course I did! I’d been with the novel I was already working on for nearly two years. Not that I’d made much progress, mind you. Actually, next to none. But I cared about it. I truly did. I liked the characters, the setting, the premise….but. Well. Just because you have all the pieces doesn’t mean you’ll be able to put them together into something good.
And so, reader, I started banging writing the sexy novel I met on the trail. Tentatively at first—just sort of trying it out, seeing if maybe if I got it out of my system, the novelty would wear off, and I’d realize that I belonged back with my “real” book. But the more I banged wrote, the more I realized that this really was the book I wanted to be with.
And now, here I am, more than eighty pages in, and the passion has not so much as flickered.
This isn’t to say that it’s all hot and heavy all of the time—or even most of it. Hell no! This is a novel I’m working on here. It’s hard! And, more to the point, I am a writer, which means that one day I’ll finish a writing session certain that my book is going to be freaking brilliant (Luminous! A Tour de Force!), and the next day I’ll be convinced it’s so shallow, ham-handed, and predictable that my former ChatGPT intern Tyler could have written it. (Vomitous! A Tour de Suck!)
But even on the self-doubting and spinning-my-wheels days, I know for sure that this is the novel I’m supposed to be writing right now. I know because instead of it feeling like a slog, it feels like a fun, hard thing I really want to do—a thing I’m excited to show up for every morning. It’s what writing The Society of Shame felt like, too. And it’s really the only kind of writing I’m interested in doing. As I’ve written about here and elsewhere, this is a quite change from my former writing life, when I pushed myself through projects that I liked, but didn’t love.
Meanwhile, I have not once felt compelled to go back to that other novel. So, I suppose, really, I’m not having an affair anymore. And the title of this post probably should have been “I got a (very amicable) divorce.” But that sounds much less exciting, doesn’t it? Also, who knows; maybe I’ll return to the old novel someday when the time is right, and my vision for it is clearer.
Oh! And the other thing that I’m loving in my writing life is that the revolving door novel workshop I was in while writing much of The Society of Shame just resumed meeting in person. I leapt at the chance to get back together with some members of the merry band of weirdos who helped me bring that last novel to fruition with their encouragement, feedback, laughter, snacks, and baby velociraptor impressions.
I’d forgotten how energizing it feels to have an (in-person!) team rooting for me and giving me feedback while I’m working on a novel—and how equally energizing it feels to do the same for all of them. (Novelists: get yourself a group of fellow travelers!)
As for the new book, well, I don’t want to say too much about it because, I don’t know; superstition? But I will say:
1.) It takes place in a difficult-to-pronounce town in Massachusetts (a fictional one, as opposed to the many real ones that fit this description).
2.) The main character owns an Airbnb.
3.) There are no swans, but there is a giant egg. And some Canada geese. Because fuck those guys.
4.) It isn’t as broadly satirical or farcical as The Society of Shame, but it’s still got plenty of humor in it. (See: giant egg, geese.)
5.) It has a one-word, three-syllable title. I assume that because the book Yellowface did too, and was a huge bestseller, then, by the transitive property, my new book will also be a huge bestseller. Isn’t math great?
I hope it won’t be too long before I can share a little more. In the meantime, I’ll be here in my office, getting it on with my draft. Please knock before entering.
All posts on Jane’s Calamity are free and publicly available, but writing is how I make my living. If you enjoy my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.
P.S. Here’s something I wrote about unwanted d*ck pics.
This new novel sounds like the one!
I am in the midst of a very similar, almost manic, experience banging a new novel, too...
Hooray for our writing workshop -- and for affairs!? Loved the first 50 and cannot wait for the rest!