Dear Me, Not Again!

It is so rare to get a new comment on this blog that it rends my heart to reject the most recent one, inquiring about the next date of publication; but rules are rules. One did specify clearly in the beginning that there would be no outing of persons choosing to remain anonymous, or pseudonymous. Speaking of Anonymous, am I hearing from the same Anonymous who was morally certain Miss Jane was a Log Cabin Republican? Pace; no one else bothers to write. Patience is a virtue.

P.S. As Miss Jane is enjoying some well-deserved and much needed downtime at the moment, I trust the public will forgive today's illustration. Fang agreed to come over from the first book and visit, but she will keep drinking from the toilet bowl and the pesky software won't provide for shutting it.

Les Liaisons Dangereuses

Helas! What a week. One has been legally admonished. (Or is it truly legal? Friends with paralegal certification have been heard chortling hysterically in the background.) One has suffered undue contumely. One has endured horrid robocalls.

Humble moi, somewhat becalmed in writing due to circumstances beyond her control, turns her contemplation to the feast of dainties offered by the county's soap-opera twists and turns. If there are readers who any longer care, is there a clear preference for the most novelworthy contretemps afoot this season? Opening sentences spring up in one's head: "You could be forgiven for not having noticed there was a Treasurer's race in the County. Most people in most counties don't think much about the treasurer until they get a tax bill -- even though that's the one thing that's certain, as they say, aside from death. In this race, we were dealing with both."

All right, as they used to say in the parlor game, who, where and with what weapon?

Or are there more possibilities in tricycle racing? "Sprawled ten yards from the finish line, legs tangled in the stunted pedals of a twisted pink tricycle..."

Batter up!

Ethnic Stereotyping, or Stereotaping

Some of the recent raucous accusations of ethnic elitism from the county's peanut gallery have called to mind a recent conversation. An out-of-state fan remarked by e-mail on Miss Jane's use of the random Yiddish phrase by her saucy femme fatale, and suggested that it whiffed of the book. Ironically, of all Miss Jane's ethnic characterizations, it is these which are most frequently lifted from life. If Smitty is occasionally perplexed by the idioms of a lady from Scarsdale, his redactor has heard most of those turns of phrase in context, some in identical situations. It has been, if not yet a long, a satisfyingly varied life. One cannot claim to perfect literacy in all the cultures of this mighty nation, but one never recoils from exposure.

Really, it is vexing to be told one is ethnically condescending. For every gentleman who has asked Miss Jane if there is a real Dvorah and whether her telephone number may be obtained by a smitten reader, there is a lady who wishes that someone like Shelley Selby would cross her path. A European-born professor of the humanities sent an encomium to Mercedes de la Roja. As the last two were crafted of the whole cloth, I think Miss Jane can be exonerated of any zeal to tarnish the image of minorities, or indeed to make any statement at all about the relative value of this culture or that gene pool. A novelist is but a portraitist and her characters sometimes walk into her parlor and request a sitting. Heavens, look at Margaret Ellen Stannard, blonde and fetching with her name straight out of a Midwestern family Bible! Morality police, take note.

Embarras de Richesse

As it happened, I was sketching another post under this title when the most recent communication from Without arrived. (Without what? you ask. Read and decide.) Rather than post it in the previous thread, which is getting worn out, I reproduce it here:

Can't Afford Arlington has left a new comment on your post "Je ne regrette rien":

Jane Barcroft is nothing more than a small but important part of the Arlington Elite's successful effort to gentrify Arlington, starting with attacking anti-gentrification activists and characterizing them as crazies and terrorists.

Here I felt that the year was yielding an awkward surplus of matter for a writer of potboilers, stretching from slapstick to subversive, but what we have here is a surplus of people who regard humble moi as an "important" part of a wicked conspiracy. Is it not delicious? Or… is it even a surplus? I resist temptation, resist it mightily I say, but the desire to quote myself grows more intense with every one of these truculent posts. Has life truly imitated art? I feel as if I have been here before, in a gossamer dream, or in Chapter Seven.

Will someone ever comment on my witty dialogue? Or on the naughty bits?