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Oh my gosh, Word Press!

Posted in Uncategorized on 04/22/2017 02:43 pm by jess

I did it!

 

After months–maybe even years!–of not being able to get back into my WordPress blog (this thing here that you’re reading, if you’re reading it)–I finally found my way back in. Why was I so nimroded about finding it in the past? What made me able to surpass that state of nimrodery? If I had to guess, it could be those two parking tickets, pile of taxes that I have an extension for, and giant wad of grading in my backpack. They just knew how to conspire and set me up with something more interesting.

It’s also maybe a bit fitting, because after a big hiatus from writing (2 new jobs in 2 years, one new kid, and just a general need for a break), I had a glimmer of a way back into something I’d set aside. Could be just a glimmer; the manuscript in the proverbial drawer could very well be in its final resting-place. And it’s not that much of a surprise that on spring vacation (spring vacaaaaaaaaaytiooooooon! Like Captain Cavemaaaaan!), the abandoned dry land that is the wellspring of my creativity perks up with just a little water. But maybe this is a sign that that little glimmer (hello, mixed-metaphor, my old friend) will turn into water and yadda yadda yadda and I should go become one with my taxes before I take a certain moppet to get a haircut–

but let us not forget the great miracle that happened here, which is that I got back into the blog!

Yahoo!

Captain Caaave maaaaaaan!

As promised, Captain Caveman

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A Proud Taste for Community and Doughnuts

Posted in Who is Jessica Leader?, Youth on 12/16/2013 12:01 pm by jess

(This is a cross-post on the blog for Longacre, a great summer program that I attended as a teenager. I’ll be blogging for them for the next few months, alternating with 2015 debut novelist Cordelia Jensen, another alum. I’m excited for a bona fide chance to revisit some good parts of my teen years, and to see what someone else says about the role of Longacre in her own life. Stay tuned!)

So I was thrilled when Director Matt asked me to blog for Longacre, because my summers there had an enormous effect on me, and I’m eager to explain how. I can sum it up in one word: doughnuts.

Yes, so doughnuts are a big go-to in my life. There are certain streets I can’t walk without instantly thinking, “Can I get a doughnut now?” But here, doughnuts are relevant.

Lots of things about me were the same from ages 11 through 18: a love of reading, writing, and theatre; high levels of goofiness; an allergic reaction to anything I perceived as fake. The attitude toward the doughnuts, however, evolved.


A milk crate representing a container of joy and fear.
Container of joy and fear.

Before I went to Longacre Farm, I went to a conventional camp. Sports, arts, and waterfront; Saturday night socials; Sunday breakfast in bed. We didn’t get served on trays, but we got to sleep in, and someone in the cabin would go up to the kitchen and get cereal, milk, and doughnuts for breakfast. (I hope you weren’t worried that I wouldn’t get to the doughnuts. I will always get to the doughnuts.)

In five summers at this camp, I never once went to pick up breakfast. I honestly don’t know how I managed this without a) anyone noticing or b) anyone slapping me. I was probably there for a total of twenty-eight Sundays, and for every single one of them, I slept in, played cards, and elbowed my way to a powdered doughnut without contributing a thing. Of course, I meant to volunteer for breakfast duty, one day. It was just—where did one go, really, to pick it up? No one had explained the location of the mysterious breakfast window. Would there be scary people I didn’t know there—maybe boys? (I liked boys, but our camp was gender-separated, and I didn’t want to run into them as I looked in the wrong place.) It was all just too scary. Better to let someone else get pushed into the job of breakfast retrieval.


A box of Hostess donuts.
Why does summer camp ever end, really?

Fast-forward to Longacre Farm. On our first night, we counted off into different work crews. As with most work crews, the jobs rotated: Showers and Latrines; Kitchen; Barn Chores … I don’t remember the rest, but there was one every day, and they took up serious time—kitchen, in fact, was an all-day adventure starting when everyone else was asleep and ending when you staggered out for dinner. We’d had a chore-wheel at Camp Generic, but even sweeping the cabin didn’t compare to mashing 35 potatoes—by hand.


A potato masher.
I kind of hope they have upgraded to electric.

I don’t know why, but I didn’t mind these chores. I found it impossible to remove every hair from the countertops (I still do), but I realized early on that if we didn’t clean up after ourselves, nobody would, and if I did a lazy job, it would just annoy someone the next day. It was also fun to work with other people. I still remember a counselor singing back to Edie Brickell as he washed 80 plastic cups. (When she sang, “Don’t let me get too deep,” he would reply, “Don’t worry, baby, I won’t.”) At my high-pressure school, working hard had meant staying up late with grueling essays. I didn’t have that many chores at home (thanks, Mom and Dad), but the things I did felt like something I had to do, rather than something I got to provide. At Longacre, hard work meant sweat and ache, but pride, fun, and community, too.


Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians.
I bet you can guess how old I am within 5 years,

I know it’s a luxury to have positive experiences with physical work. For many people, that work is not an option, and it’s nothing close to fun. Nevertheless, it was my experience, and it formed an ethos in me that has had unexpected and lasting effects. My best friend and I met in 10th-grade math, but we didn’t really bond until we spent a Saturday making sandwiches at a soup kitchen. I have often gotten back-pats for lending a hand at work, and it’s because of that same Longacre realization: if I don’t do this, who will, and how badly would it stink for someone else to do it alone? And while I have the usual marital housework spats, part of the strength of my marriage comes from the mutual practice of my partner and I taking things off each others’ plates—and I don’t mean the last pierogi. I am no saint, believe me. I have often been accused of hoarding and then insufficiently washing dirty dishes. But I am better than I could have been.

All those summer-camp Sundays, playing spit and waiting for the breakfast delivery, I think I felt guilty, and afraid to be revealed as a shirker. Perhaps what really awaited me on the breakfast run was a pajama-walk over dewy grass and the pride of presenting my friends with their breakfast. I’ll never know what I missed on that front, but I’m glad I got the chance to make it up in the years to come.

Now … where’s the nearest doughnut?

Curious about Longacre, or maybe just want to see pictures of cute kids in grubby clothes? Head on over to Longacre.

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Novel Additions

Posted in Gruntlets, Writerliness on 09/07/2013 04:23 pm by jess

Yes. I know. It’s been a bit of a while. Since then, I have prepped four books to teach for this semester and begun teaching, and my daughter now says she’s writing a book about bears and water (she may seriously have a picture-book career.) I will just share a few things that are happening with my mystery story.

Both happily and sadly, my classroom is nothing like this one.

 

1) I learned that a haberdasher is not, in fact, a hat-maker, but anyone associated with men’s clothing. Who knew? To be honest, I think I did. I think that every few years, I wonder, “Is a haberdasher a hat-maker?” and then look it up to find that it is not. Maybe next time, I will remember.

Okay, doesn’t this totally make you want to be a haberdasher? Maybe this blog post will start a new series: SYWTBAH

2) I learned that the difference between Coronation and Investiture is that Coronation is religious and Investiture is for secular countries, like Holland, where Queen Beatrix, the 76-year-old monarch, recently abdicated so her son could have a hand at governing. Right on, Beatrix! And good luck present ruler, whose name I have forgotten and don’t think it would add much to include. It’s not Harald; that’s a Norwegian king of recent-ish rule, but I feel like it does add something to the proceedings to have Harold spelled with two a’s.

So THAT’s why the stores are full of royal blue! Duh! It’s in the name!

3) Excitingly, I have made up a new food for the invented kingdom I’m writing about. The name popped into my head: a gruntlet. I quick-quick turned on the internet (because I was in a netless hour–holla, new discipline regime) and confirmed: a gruntlet does not already exist, so I could invent one.

And what is a gruntlet? No spoilers here, but I will say that it’s like quiche, only delicious. (Couldn’t quiche so be improved upon? Couldn’t it be immeasurably better without that hard, flaky crust? Mini-quiches are often yummy, but when they go for bigger shells, they just end up tough and sad. A gruntlet, I feel certain, will be the way back into love for large-style egg-and-vegetable dishes.

It’s almost sad to have to look at this picture, but I want to inspire you to create your own gruntlet.

4) So unrelatedly, I began watching “Orange is the New Black,” and after one okay pilot and two kind of terrible episodes, it suddenly became awesome. Which is a) awesome and b) a surprising and useful tale of how sometimes authors may lay out too much exposition but should really get into the meat of the story sooner. I mean, possibly it’s just me, but aren’t we all watching that show to see whether Piper and Alex will hop into a closet together? Episodes 4 through 7 get us closer to that, and they are harder to pull away from.

Tell me: is there a quiche recipe I should know about? Does anyone want to test-pilot a gruntlet? And do you agree with me about Piper and Alex?

 

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Tradition! and the Individual Talent

Posted in Uncategorized, Writerliness on 06/09/2013 05:05 pm by jess

I really wanted to call this blog post, “And who, day and night, must scramble for a living?” because that is one of the first  lines in “Tradition,” from Fiddler on the Roof, that I will be discussing herein, ici, la. Howevs, I’m not sure that everybody (who is not anybody) knows the particulars of this most excellent entry in America’s musical songbook, so I am going global and using the title of the song, plus a little reference to the T.S. Eliot essay I read my first year of college that I am embarrassed to admit (but admit nonetheless) that I did not understand at all. Hm, now I am Googling. What does Missouri Tom have to say about Tradition and the Individual Talent? Please hold.

Aha. It seems that, after wrestling with the idea of an artist’s tradition and innovation, Eliot determines that an artist reaches his greatest contribution when he incorporates artists of the past. Yeah, I see that — not just  in Eliot, but in the thing came here to talk about and will, eventually, Google digressions notwithstanding, talk about.

The other night, I was channel-flipping (hot night–approaching the end of the school year) and came upon a PBS fund-raiser show, “Broadway Musicals and Jewish Legacy.” (Talk about Tradition and the Individual Talent!) I pretty much love any excuse to watch musical-related things on TV, and I’m a member of the tribe to boot, so I stayed. “Maria! I once kissed a girl named Maria.” “You’ve got to be carefully taught.” “People! People who need people! Are the luckiest people…” etc etc and etc.

There was much to love, but I especially loved when the creators of “Fiddler on the Roof” talked about getting backers when their project was just a fledgling. They kept meeting with Harold Prince, the legendary producer who was helping out, and he kept asking them, “What is this show about?” They’d say, “It’s about this family,” or “It’s about this porgrom.” And he’d say, “Yeah, okay, but what’s it about?” This went on eight or nine times (probably nine, since that’s half of chai — life) — and finally one of the creators had a mini-explosion and said, “It’s about tradition! I mean, what else is it about?!”

Yes! Aha! Yes and aha! And indeed. It was about tradition. Not just about the family whose daughters stray, but about the tradition that binds them together and informs their every more. And for me, yes and aha and indeed because these guys created a musical that, next year, will have lasted for sixty; that has been loved in cities from Brazil to Japan; that many people who haven’t even seen can quote — and still, once upon a time, they didn’t know what their musical was about. To which I say, Thank God, because I don’t always initially know what my stories are about, either, and it is a relief to know that I am not doomed to being a minor chorus member because of it.  Indeed, Mr. Eliot, I am taking part in the tradition of my elders–ignorance, yes, but still a tradition–and I hope that, in trying to push beyond my ignorance, I’ll develop a little individual talent.

Who, day and night, must scramble for a living? Everyone! L’Chayim!

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Notes from Readers

Posted in Nice and Mean, School Visits on 04/24/2013 09:16 pm by jess

I teach high school now, but when I taught middle school, many people hearing it for the first time would widen their eyes and say, “Wow. You must be a saint.”

I hated that. Not because it was rude — because it was wrong! I am nowhere near a saint, and middle-schoolers are the icing of the cupcake that is school — the very best and most delicious part. Overflowing with wacky ideas, irrepressible, and often surprisingly uninhibited, they touch my heart with their turns of phrase and always make me laugh. Best of all, they throw themselves into projects, like Dasha did on this thank-you note for my Skype visit to her school about Nice and Mean:

It's like the Egoiste ad circa 1991, but 1,991 times better!

There are sixteen of these cute little doors, all with parts of a message behind them!

Holy cabooses!  I can’t imagine how much work went into that. And it’s just like the 1991 Egoiste commercial*, but without the scary screaming women and with the phrase, “Signed, your admiring readers.” I enjoy my high-schoolers, but they would never reveal themselves enough to say anything like that, even in jest.

How about this one, from Emma? Her little book with the words “Video Nightmare” and “Black Book” showcase the official documents of Nice and Mean’s main characters, Marina and Sachi.

IMG_0371

All those stripey exclamation points — how could someone not love middle-schoolers?

Now, the piece de resistance, from Kyra:

I should really laminate this.

I should really laminate this.

Man alive! That’s my cover, recreated! As you can see, it’s no Fault in Our Stars cover (in case you have been living under a rock, that book, by John Green, has three colors and some clouds.) The Nice and Mean cover features lots of lines and squiggles, and she captures them all perfectly. Who would have the focus and talent to apply to that? A middle-schooler, that’s who.

I’m so glad that Laurie Morrison, teacher, writer and awesome blogger, invited me to Skype with her class, and that she was thoughtful enough to shepherd her students through the thank-you note process.  It reminded me of everything I love about the age I write for.

You’re still wondering about the Egoiste commercial, aren’t you? Does this jog your memory?

My friend and I spent an entire weekend jumping out of the laundry-room door at my mom, inspired this commercial. I’m sure she’s so grateful to Jean-Paul Goude.  Click the link to re-live it in its glory:  “Egoiste! Egoiste!” C’est catchy, non?

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What My Daughter Thinks I’m Writing

Posted in Writerliness on 04/10/2013 12:57 pm by jess

Jumping on the bed was apparently so last-millenium. Now monkeys are doing something else entirely.

As some of you know, I have a daughter who will soon be two. We call her Mrs. McNoodle. She knows that her Mama (my partner) works at an office, and will even point out the office when we walk by it. Lately, we’ve been trying to round out the picture by telling her that Mommy (that’s me) writes stories.

One morning when I was asleep (ahh), my partner asked her, “What do you think Mommy is writing a book about?”

“Monkeys,” said Mrs. McNoodle. “Wiggle.”

So. There you have it. According to Mrs. McNoodle, I am writing about monkeys who wiggle. At the time we asked, I didn’t even know she knew the word ‘wiggle’! (Note: I do not write picture books. I pretty much always write about people. So far, not one has memorably wiggled.)

But this is no passing fancy. It’s stuck with her. Sometimes, I ask her what the monkeys should do in my book today. Recently, she said, “Haircut.”

“The monkeys should get a haircut?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me anything else about the monkeys?”

She thought about it.  “Tall.”

“So I’m writing about tall monkeys who wiggle?”

“Yes.”

In my one of my favorite episodes of Story Corps, Scott Simon interviews his 6-year-old daughter about the process of adopting her from China. He tells her,

SIMON: We wanted to get over there immediately. So we waited and waited and waited and we finally got to China….First we went to Beijing, and we–

DAUGHTER: First Chicago, then Beijing.

SIMON: Chicago, then Beijing, you’re right…(to the listener): She’s like an editor.

Me and Scott Simon, we’re getting that editorial advice right and left. If I radically change genres, you know who to thank.

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Research with the Homicide Detective

Posted in Building a Mystery, Writerliness on 03/14/2013 10:30 am by jess

I have to admit that once upon a time (a long, long time ago), I shuddered when people talked about doing research for their novels. I don’t think I dismissed it, exactly, but it was sort of like Organic Chemistry: awesome for some, but not for me. (Actually, that’s a bad example; Orgo is famously the endpoint for many aspiring pre-meds.) So Calculus, maybe, although no, I enjoyed Calculus, even if we found the volume of way too many swimming pools.

I digress.

I’m also not sure how I feel about having put a cat photo on my blog.

The point is, I edged away from research. But since I started setting novels in places I don’t know well, now, I think: research! It’s great! Especially when you can interview someone. Yes, I could have found out about police procedure from the books and the internets, but when I talked to a retired homicide detective last week, I got so much more than just the facts, ma’am.

I asked, Would it look disorganized if the police questioned my main character once, then asked her back? Does it make them look disorganized? He laughed.

Would you take this detective for a major brain? Me, neither, but he always got his man. Or woman.

“Did you ever watch Columbo?” he asked. “Peter Falk played the part of the dumb old cop who kept asking, ‘Excuse me, just one more question.’ People would get so frustrated with him, but he was the wise old owl. He recognized that you could play dumb and be wiser than got credit for.

“Being an investigator, you have to play a game with people. The study of individuals and gathering info is something I’ve always loved about the job. I loved to play the mind games. You’ll identify who the person is but play the mind-game until you’re ready to take them down. When I ask you a question, I’ve done my homework, so I already know the answer or I wouldn’t be asking. If they answer truthfully, great. If they start trying to deceive you, you know they are and ask them why. It’s like talking to your kids. You know what they’ve done, but you ask them to tell you.”

How great is his language? And how much better will my interrogation scene be now that I’m not just making up questions but having the detective already know the answer? My protagonist might not have done a thing to commit the crime, but if the detective asks her a question, knowing the answer, and she somehow stumbles and gets it wrong–nerves! Suspicion! Drama! In fact, I could use this technique with anyone in any story–principal, parent–even friend.

Thank you, Lieutenant T, for your words and your attitude. You just opened a whole bunch of doors. As for me, I’m going to research 19th-century Dutch furniture so I can figure out what the partner-in-crime is dirtying with his Vans.

There wasn’t even a Google auto-complete for 19th-century Dutch furniture, but I must admit that the furniture itself is not that singular. Still, glad I checked!

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Link to interview with DC author Sandy Green

Posted in Who is Jessica Leader?, Writerliness on 02/20/2013 11:14 am by jess

Sandy Green, a local author whose funny blog features a purple car-spotting meme and the tagline, “Everyone’s sandy at the beach,” interviewed me on her blog! Check it out:

Writing is Always Better with Cake.

No idea how she came up with that title. Will have to ponder.

Have I told you yet about Cake-Out, which makes amazing layered cakes in take-out containers, somehow managing to maintain amazing freshness even with layers of frosting and ganache? Probably not, because I am only marginally interested in cake.

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Sad, Twisty Women in Gone Girl and Side Effects

Posted in Uncategorized on 02/17/2013 01:50 pm by jess

 

For those of you who haven’t read Gone Girl and or seen Side Effects, I’ve titled this post noting the Sad, Twisty women in both. If you’re still planning on checking them out, stop reading: spoilers abound. If you know the stories, or don’t plan to read them, I will now unveil the real title, which is

If You Disappoint a Woman, She’ll Hatch a Psycho Murder Plot That Frames You as the Perpetrator! Watch out!

Briefly: In Gone Girl, Nick comes home one day to find his wife, Amy, abducted. We pretty much know that he hasn’t done it (unless he’s lying to us, and we’re pretty sure he isn’t.) As the police find more and more evidence that points to him, he embarks on his own investigation and realizes that since high school, Amy has staged crimes against herself and framed her friends and lovers. The reason for insanity, we find out, is that her parents plagarized her life for their book series and then needed to take back her trust fund when they made bad investments. Nick also isn’t the husband Amy wanted him to be, either, losing his job in the recession, relocating her (without much choice) to his ailing hometown to care for his mean, dying father, and cheating on her with a student.  The author, Gillian Flynn, manages to make both Amy and Nick sympathetic, despite their many flaws–Nick for being duped and following the trail; Amy for her lame parents and her scheming brilliance. However, when I saw the movie Side Effects last night, I started to see Amy’s actions in a darker shade.

The woman bottom-right is not who she seems. She’s sad AND twisty!

In Side Effects, another women with a simple name, Emily Taylor, has her money taken away, this time when her husband is busted for insider trading at a Gatsby lawn party. In the past, her ambitions centered around graphic design. However, she sets her sights higher when she gets treated for depression by a shrink with lesbian tendencies and embarks on a plot to make back the money, kill her husband, and get away with it. (Beware the shrink with lesbian tendencies, though fear not, she will always be unmasked as the bad seed.)

Not what they seem, either.

 

Enter Jude Law as Dr. Banks, this movie’s Nick, as the psychiatrist who sees Emily next as part of the murder plan. Emily gets him to prescribe her anti-depressants that induce somnolent activities, like knifing your husband in the back as you’re cooking him dinner. Dr. Banks testifies that Emily did this entirely unconsciously and helps Emily get institutionalized instead of imprisoned, but his job and marriage are upended with the taint of his bad prescriptions. Desperate to gain back his reputation, he, too, goes on his own investigation, in this case to learn that Ms. Emily Taylor is not actually the sleepwalker she claims to be.

So–what is that?  Some women–both white–are so unable to accept disappointment that they go crazy, concocting elaborate deceptions that free themselves and destroy others’ lives? Okay, yes: insider trading, spousal cheating, and the sudden loss of money would throw me for a loop, too, and yes, this is genre fiction and entertainment. Still, I find it alarming that two authors in one year thought the public would find it satisfying to learn that cruel crimes and psychotic behavior were motivated by a woman’s disappointment in losing her station.

I can’t imagine this story ever being made with reverse gender roles, either because the disappointed man would go out and make something of himself or because we’d just think it was too mean for a man to frame his wife. It wouldn’t be entertaining. In contrast, we think it’s great for these bad men to be punished for their crimes against the seemingly defenseless women they wronged. “Go get ‘im, Lorena!” we cheer, until we learn–oh, noes!–that our Emily is psycho.

Except–wait! Lorena doesn’t come out on top. By the end of the story, Dr. Banks, however flawed and responsible for Emily’s circumstances, has the brains and tenacity to pursue his beliefs and seek out the she-devil and her truth. Side Effects ends with Emily, formerly only aping depression, now drugged to her pretty eyeteeth and staring out one of many indistinguishable windows of the mental institution. I felt a sense of justice, but what about Dr. Banks, who the movie makes clear was a little freehanded with the medication? Why does he get to drive off with his hot wife and cute stepkid at the end? No punishment for the man with the prescription pad?

I must give Gone Girl credit for a more savvy ending, or at least an attempt at one (of the two stories, it is by far the more finely crafted.) Amy gets pregnant with Nick’s kid, and even after all this crazy behavior, the two of them choose to stay with each other. It’s a perverse and, to me, witty take on the fact that people with families choose to be pinned down when we pick one partner and hope for the best.  To that extent, Gone Girl does take responsibility for its story by having its female protagonist get what she so desperately sought to escape: life with an imperfect man. Or is it that she gets what she wants–a husband who chooses her, warts and all, while he has to live with someone whose flaws might only kindly be referred to as imperfections?

I just don’t feel that, as a woman, I’m being given much credit for my ability to accept reality. Yes, there is something exciting about women constructing new lives after they get handed a poop sandwich, but can the lives please not involve lies and murder? Just wondering.

For another feminist take on “Side Effects,” look here: 

  • Tags: Gone Girl, Side Effects 
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Do You Hear the People Sing?

Posted in Uncategorized, Who is Jessica Leader?, Writerliness on 01/16/2013 09:54 pm by jess

Brothers and sisters, guess where I was Monday night?

A showtunes sing-a-long. And if you’re going to read on in the hopes of an ironic sneer at the process, forget it! I love showtunes, and I love singing with people. It’s the closest thing in my life right now to organized religion: everybody engaged, with common knowledge and enthusiasm. Okay, we’re not seeking moral guidance, and for sure the carolers aren’t wrestling with the problematics of the song “Mame” (“The whole plantation’s hummin?” And really, people still do this show?). Still, I love singing with people, especially songs from musicals, which I’ve listened to all my life.

I did walk into Signature Theatre, who was hosting this month, with trepidation. I’d

I am no Fraulein Sally Bowles. Alas.

thought it was going to be songbook-style, but when I came in late (since I can never manage to reach any DC destination without getting lost), only one person was singing, in a very jazzy cabaret. Uh-oh. Would this be amateur piano karaoke? I like to sing, but I”m nothing to make people listen to, and I definitely wasn’t going to belt out “Maria” for a crowd of strangers. I started to wonder if I’d driven extra on Glebe Road for nothing.

However, when I reached the friend who worked there, she assured me that the event was, in fact, sing-a-long style; the lounge lizard was just doing a little publicity for an upcoming Signature show. Phew. I happily abandoned myself to the 50-page songbook and crooning crowd. Singing! Belting! With others and a piano! The piano player was totally into it, adding little flourishes that you hear on the soundtrack but have to add in on your own when you a capella in your car. I’m in my 30s and was definitely below the median age, but I was touched by the cluster of men in their 60s, letting others use the songbooks and signaling to the piano player to pause as they looked up the words to “Impossible Dream” and “Tomorrow” on their iPads. They were straight-seeming, too, which surprised and charmed me. People had come out of their demographic for the night, and I gave my gamest alto along with them.

Not without moments of self-consciousness, of course. We ventured into the late 20th century with “525,600 minutes” from “Rent,” and one young redhead in too short of a shirt-dress got WAY more into it than I thought was seemly, doing little kicky dances and flirting cutely with her friend across the circle. Or–even worse–the crowd requested “Do You Hear the People Sing?” from Les Miserables and then proceeded to belt it out from memory, since it wasn’t in the songbook.

There was an unwritten rule to loving musical theatre, I decided. It was perfectly fine to know the words to “I’m Just a Girl Who Cain’t Say No,” or “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Those songs were just in the vernacular. Your parents sang from those shows, or you were in a production of one of them at camp. But to know the words to any song other than the major ballads of “Les Miserables” was just shameful. People shouldn’t admit to that sort of malarkey. Or maybe I didn’t want to be there when they did.

Just as I was feeling the need for a bathroom escape, though, two new, young women sauntered through in impressively tailored coats. The one with glossy curls caught my eye and intoned, “The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France!” I couldn’t help but laugh. There was a little irony in the night after all. Or at least, just enough.

Now, pardon me while I play a game of Spider solitaire so I can pay attention to the words to “Impossible Dream.” That’s a good song, yo!

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