The three different kinds of novels (they’re probably not what you think)

Awhile back I ran across Edith Wharton’s book on how to write. I love Edith Wharton probably more than almost any other writer, so reading this was a no-brainer. And it was fascinating. She’s writing this book more than 100 years ago, and she’s sitting significantly closer to the invention of the novel than we are. If we go back 150 years before Wharton, we can read things that are called novels, but they’re very different, structurally, from anything we’d read today. In Wharton’s time, we haven’t yet hit modernism, but otherwise the outlines of the novel are more or less set.

And I think in her chapter on the novel, she writes very clearly:

Most novels, for convenient survey, may be grouped under one or the other of three types: manners, character (or psychology) and adventure. These designations may be thought to describe the different methods sufficiently; but as a typical example of each, “Vanity Fair” for the first, “Madame Bovary” for the second, and, for the third, “Rob Roy” or “The Master of Ballantrae,” might be named.

When I read this I was like, “Oh my god, I’ve never seen that distinction before.”

(For the uninitiated, here’s how I’ll summarize the difference between the three types. A novel of manners deals with the development and changes within people’s social relations. Most romance novels, for instance, are novels of manners. In these novels, the relationships are the real characters. A novel of character is about the development of one person. It has much more to do with the experience of living within the world and with one person’s internal development. And an adventure is the hardest to define: it’s primarily about external struggle to achieve some definite object. Of course, many novels nowadays contain elements of all of these types.)

I think the reason this came as a surprise is that most of what I know about novels I learned within genre fiction communities, and in our world, the adventure is still the predominant form. There are exceptions! Jo Walton has written novels of manners (in The Just City) and novels of character (such as Among Others). Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkisigan series has progressed through the different types, with some being adventures (Warrior’s Apprentice) and others being novels of character (Memory) and some being straight-up novels of manner (A Civil Campaign). But generally speaking, most sci-fi/fantasy books are adventures.

It becomes even more complicated for me, I think, because the type that interests me the most, the novel of manners, is also not very much in vogue in my other genre (literary fiction for adults). In some ways, it’s not surprising that I ended up writing contemporary YA, because here the novel of manners is the predominant form (this is also why I’m drawn, I think, to romance novels and to some kinds of crime novels).

As a friend of mine recently said (in a toast at my wedding), “Rahul loves conflict.” I just love all the situations in real life where people go at each other and come to cross purposes. In fact, I love movies about weddings, for exactly that reason: weddings are a time when all these feelings bubble to the surface.

Anyway, these thoughts about the nature of the novel came back to me as I was reading Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell (a stunning, spectacular novel of manners). Elizabeth Gaskell is so good. Her work is definitely better than most Eliot, aside from Middlemarch. She just has so much control when she comes to her characters. They’re so multi-faceted, and she knows exactly when to draw back and let them be real. For instance, the stepmother in Wives and Daughters is sort of shallow and horrible, but she really really tries to win over her stepdaughter, partly because she’s not a cruel person (she doesn’t enjoy causing misery) and partly because she knows that the people in the town are going to be judging and evaluating her and she doesn’t want to fall into the wicked stepmother trope. Note, she doesn’t change over the course of the book. Not really. But her relationship with her stepdaughter progresses and develops.

Anyway, these thoughts have given me so much insight into the sort of books that I want to write, and now I put them on the internet that they’ll do the same for you =]

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(Here I’ve attached an image of the Oxford Classics cover of Wives and Daughters. If you’re reading classic English literature on the Kindle and you’re not buying the Oxford Classics editions, then you’re making a huge mistake! They’re like half as expensive as the Penguin Classics editions [often under $5!] and their footnoting is so good! I think I’m coming into the part of my life where I actually enjoy annotations, which is kind of a shock. Wow, I’m officially old.)

Writing blog posts doesn’t actually take very much time

Longtime blog readers probably know that I am a huge fan of personal metrics of various sorts. I spent years upon years tracking all kinds of shit about myself, including how many hours I wrote, how many I read, how many steps I took, how many words I wrote, number of rejections I got, times I exercised, blog posts I wrote, and on and on and on, even extending into some really weird and arcane stuff (when I was first trying to expand my social media presence, for instance, I gave myself a point for each day that I posted a comment on somebody else’s Facebook post).

Sometime last year this all became way too daunting and meaningless. The amount of data being collected was so much that I had no idea how to use it effectively, and I eventually ended the entire logging endeavor (archiving something like twelve years of data in the process!)

But obviously I’m still the same nerdy guy underneath, so lately I’ve been approaching logging in a different way. The study of one person is obviously never going to be rigorous or scientific, but it also doesn’t need to be. The point of all this logging and goal-setting is simply for me to feel more comfortable in myself. So lately I’ve been passively gathering data in the form of a daily time-use log. Each day I record it whenever I start a new activity or stop another activity.

On days when I’m out and about, the log is obviously pretty sketchy. For instance I might write down (6 PM to 12 PM – Party!!!) But in an ordinary day it’ll mostly be a mix of writing, reading, paid work, TV or computer gaming, and, in the afternoons and evenings, socializing. It’s been interesting to see how I work when I’m just observing myself, without any goals or strictures.

For instance, for years I’ve been dieting (I lost 110 pounds from January 2012 to January 2015), and throughout that time I generally tried to eat around 1600 calories a day. In the last year however, with the tumult of traveling and the book launch and of my wedding, I’ve gained 20 pounds. Now this is in part a totally normal thing. Ninety-five percent of dieters regain their lost weight within five years. I’m actually significantly ahead of the curve in that I’ve kept most of it off for more than five years. However, the body does strike back against what it perceives as a period of extended starvation.

In any case, in the last few weeks I’ve tried to reassert order, but in a gentle way. Rather than alternating between having zero sweets and having cheat days where I binged on them, I now allow everything, so long as it gets logged. Unsurprisingly, this has reduced the binging. It’s interesting to see that my calorie consumption has tended to be closer to 1900-2100 in reality (I’m 240 pounds, so that’s still a level at which I’d lose weight). I’ve also felt less desire to binge now that I know nothing will ever be off-limits. I don’t know, probably this scheme will fall apart eventually too, but nothing lasts forever.

Other interesting data: I write much more than I think I do. For years I struggled to have more than two hours of writing time in a day. But I think relaxing and allowing myself to write during all the odd moments when it occurs to me has been a good thing. In the last week I’ve averaged almost 3.7 hours of writing per day. And that’s real writing time. I’m not just counting time in front of the computer. Whenever I switch over to a distraction (computer games, often), I mark that.

Writing time does however include the hours spent doodling in the notebook or staring into space or just sitting poised in front of the keyboard. I’m trying at the moment to think of an idea for a novel for adults. I very much want to write a book for adults, but nothing has ever yet gelled for me in the way that Enter Title Here or It’s Probably Just A Phase had. I think though that the aimless time is actually very productive. If there’s anything I’ve learned from the extensive periods of writer’s block in my life, it’s that the right character is a necessity. The write character–someone who’s strong and larger-than-life and animated by deeply-held yearnings–can make small talk in the kitchen seem like it’s of riveting, earth-shattering importance. Conversely, the wrong character can make impending nuclear war seem dull. So right now I’m spending a lot of time just listening for the right character. Again, not sure if this effort will bear fruit.

Oh, and one more insight, which is the original reason I came here to write this post, is that writing blog posts only takes fifteen minutes!

Usually I put off blog writing because it seems time-consuming, but it’s not. Only fifteen minutes. Sheesh. Probably it’d take longer if I did more editing of these posts, but who’s got the time?

Sent out IT’S PROBABLY JUST A PHASE for what I hope is the last time

Well I’ve spent the last two weeks revising what I hope’ll be my second YA novel: It’s Probably Just A Phase (formerly known as Tell Em They’re Amazing). I just sent the book off to Robert, my new agent, and I don’t think there’s going to be any more rounds of revision (though we’ll see). So if you never hear about the book again, that means that it didn’t sell!

I reread the whole thing today just to make sure that it was internally consistent (when you revise, sometimes you forget to line up all the little bits and pieces), and I found myself thinking, “This book is pretty effing good.”

This was not something I always felt. When I first began the book in April of 2014, I was like, well, okay, there’s something here. It’s got a nice voice and all. But the whole thing was a mess, both narratively and structurally, and as I worked on it I was consistently telling myself, okay so it’s not as good as Enter Title Here, but it’s probably good enough to sell.

The book has gone through round and round of revision (most of them instigated and directed by my own intuition) and with each round the book has improved, but each time I’ve also been like…well…it’s better, but it’s still not as good as Enter Title Here.

Now…this book certainly hasn’t displaced ETH in my heart. Writing ETH was like a religious experience. Reshma appeared so fully-formed in my head, and remarkably little revision was needed in order to sell the book. Moreover, I just identified so strongly with her, and the criticism her character has taken since publication has only made me feel more tenderly about the book.

Buuuuuuut…I do think It’s Probably Just A Phase is the better book. It really took this last revision to tip it over. Everything is finally lined up in a row. The themes and character arcs make sense. Moreover, I finally like all the characters. They feel really alive to me, and I have that sense of tenderness for them that I felt for Reshma. Moreover, I think they’re really messy and honest, but not in a way where I’m just trying to excuse bad plotting or characterization by saying “They’re messy and honest.” The characters have no idea what’s going on, but I, the author, am still in control, and I know what’s up.

The book has truly been a joy to write. I’ve had to learn an amazing amount about how to plot and structure a quieter, more character-based narrative, and that’s something I really needed to learn in order to write the sort of stuff that I plan to write. But, moreover, the experience of writing this book has been useful on a broader level. It’s nice to know that you don’t need to be absolutely one hundred percent in love with a book in order to write it. Sometimes all you need is to love it just enough that you’re willing to keep working on it (which is a pretty high threshold in itself, I might add! I’ve abandoned so many books simply because I couldn’t bear to reread the opening chapter another twenty or thirty times.)

As for what’s next? Well…I have no idea. book_done.gif

Where has Elizabeth Gaskell been all my life!

51efO90M6qLSometimes I get in this mood where I’m like, “I’ve ready so many 19th century British novels (something like 65 in the last 7 years), and I really think I’ve mined out that vein.” And that is when, inevitably, I run across another book that shows me something totally new! I mean I suppose it shouldn’t be very surprising: this is an entire century of literature, after all. Okay so maybe I’m just really callous when it comes to history. If somebody told me that 65 great novels were published in America last year, I’d be like…duh. But my standards for books that’re 100+ years old are much higher.

Anyways, in the last week I’ve been devouring Elizabeth Gaskell. And in a miracle of pacing, each book has been better than the last. North and South was great. I loved how it featured political issues and the working class and plotting that is notably more subtle than the average political novel. However it still felt like a standard marriage plot. The next book, Cranford, was better still. This was a series of vignettes about a village populated mainly by old maids and widows. Nary a marriage plot in sight! I loved their little disputes and household dramas.

But the latest book, Mary Barton, is the best yet! This one is entirely about working class people, which for me is a huge novelty. The only other 19th century British novels I’ve read that’re about working class people are a few of Dickens novels, and in his books they’re always, like, displaced gentry (a la David Copperfield) or exceptional in some other way. Here it’s like, nope, they’re a bunch of mill workers. And they laugh and love and scheme just like gentlepeople! But they also go hungry sometimes =[

Most striking is Gaskell’s portrayal of their health problems. In Victorian literature, people are always taking to bed, wasting away, and dying. But in Mary Barton, the people don’t take to bed until they’re really freaking sick. Thus you have characters like Margaret, a dressmaker’s apprentice who knows the tiny stitching she’s doing is making her go blind, but who takes in more work anyway because she needs to save up money to support her grandfather. You’ve got Alice Wilson, the unmarried aunt of one of the characters, who starts the book as a spry old woman, a factory worker who goes out into the fields on her own time to collect herbal cures, and then deteriorates over the course of the book, first losing her hearing, and then her sight, until she’s left nodding in the corner, confused and alone.

The  book does suffer, though, from the stupid detective plot in the third act. One of the characters gets accused of murder and the other characters need to rally and find evidence that exculpates him. Yawn! Give me some more stuff about who’s gonna marry whom, please.

Phew! Overwhelmed by all the events. Also, by my paperback

Well, two weeks after concluding my agent search, I got married. That happened. I’ve got a ring and everything. Today the paperback version of Enter Title Here came out. I have no idea what I need to do to promote that. I’m not even sure that promotion is possible; I think the point of the paperback is that it’s cheap and more suitable for browsing and impulse buying.

I’ve been reading Elizabeth Gaskell, one of the lesser-known Victorians. She is pretty good! I’m not saying she’s another George Eliot or anything, but she, almost alone out of the Victorian novelists I’ve read, actually writes about the middle- and working classes! I just finished North and South, which takes place in a manufacturing town in Northern England and concerns, at least in major subplot, a strike in a textile mill! Pretty good stuff! The book got slightly tedious at times, but it was worth it.

In other news, my closest friends banded together to buy me an XBOX ONE for my birthday, and I’ve been playing Fallout New Vegas. This is the game that I hungered to play during the five long dark years when I was totally video game less (the last game I beat was Fallout 3). It’s pretty good! Took me awhile to realize though that they’d rejiggered the VATS system to make it less powerful, so the game is more of a first-person shooter than Fallout 3 was. It’s an atmospheric game, but after awhile you do get tired of the same old dusty, post-nuclear apocalyptic wastelands. I mean sheesh after two hundred years are there really no forests left in North America? I’m making extremely slow progress with it, but that’s okay.

Oh, you know the weird thing about me and gaming? Back when I was a kid I used to play games for dozens of hours, just faffing around, and never end up beating them. Now I actually beat them! I sit down and play and then the game gets over and I see the ending! It’s so bizarre. In my life, the number of games I’ve actually beaten is not that high, when compared to the number I’ve bought. It’s certainly under 25. But lately I’ve been beating all kinds of games. For instance, I picked up Diablo 2, which I never beat in YEARS of owning and playing it as a kid, and I beat the game in a day.

Being an adult is so great.

Concluded my agent search!

Alright, well that was the most nerve-wracking two weeks of my life. Got a lot of interest in the book, but finally ended up going with the first person who got back to me: Robert Guinsler at Sterling Lord.

Very pleased to be working with Robert. He has an excellent track record, but, more importantly, he really loved and seemed to get my book. Hopefully it’ll sell, but we’ll see. Hmm, now I need to update all the many places on my site where it says who my agent is…

OUR SPOONS CAME FROM WOOLWORTHS, by Barbara Comyns

Recently I’ve been reading a number of very mannered, and yet quite modern, British novels. Obviously, I come across these books using the best possible catalogue of slim, mannered novels: The New York Review of Books Classics. I adore this publisher. They aim to publish “lost classics,” and yet if you read enough of their books, you’ll see that they have a very definite aesthetic of their own. Their books are usually very small-scale, compressed, realistic, and oftentimes they’re about lonely or desperate people. In modern times, novels like these are often lyrical or multi-cultural (or multicultural and lyrical), but the NYRB classics tend towards a more shabby-genteel, combined with sharp, specific, and oftentimes quite humorous, prose. I know that at this point I’ve turned off the vast majority of my blog’s readers, but this is my sweet spot. These are the sorts of books that I love.

It would be a mistake, by the way, to say that the NYRB Classics series is “white” or lacks diversity. But…I think of the NYRB classics as being from some long-ago era when our standards for diversity were different. For instance, so much of the call for diversity is about American voices. We want to see an Indian-American writing about India, or a Chinese-American writing about China, or a black person writing about what it is to be black in America. I’ve seen very few people calling for more translated fiction.

I don’t think that a book like our_spoons_cover_image_2048x2048, to name one spectacular NYRB find, quite qualifies as “diverse” according to our modern definitions. After all, the book is from Hungary, which is arguably a country of ‘white’ people, and Deszo was not, as far as I can tell, a marginalized person within Hungary. Nor is there anything in the book that strikes one as explicitly “non-Western.” It’s about an elderly couple whose lives revolve around their unlovable daughter, and who find their marriage, and their zest for life, restored when she goes off for a week of vacation.

And yet…there is something about it that feels very foreign. Something in its structure. This is a book that is clearly coming out of a very different tradition. It is in conversation with different novels. It could have taken place in America, but an American writer probably would not have written this book.

I think the world of contemporary fiction has a very difficult idea understanding that our notions of race only apply within America. Like, in what world does it make sense to say that Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a person of color, simply because he’s Colombian? He’s not a PoC. He’s white. Similarly, is Aravind Adiga really writing post-colonial literature? Is Chetan Bhagat? And where do the ancient Chinese or Japanese novels fit in? Lady Murasaki was one of the most privileged people, and one of the most fettered, of her time and place (Heian Japan). How do we fit The Tale of Genji within the systems of power relations by which we judge which works are diverse and which aren’t?

Which is to say, I think the NYRB Classics provides a lot of diversity to the world of American letters, and that people who’re interested in diversity would do well to read some of these books.

Anyways, long digression over, the best of these books I’ve read recently was Our Spoons Came From Woolworths, by Barbara Comyns, which is about a young woman, a painter, in mid-1930s Britain, who marries another painter and who attempts, amidst increasingly dire poverty, to, I don’t know–to try to survive and be happy–even as her husband grows more and more unmanageable.

What sells the book is the voice, which is indescribable. It’s such a perfect performance. The narrator is looking back on these events after a gap of perhaps ten years. She describes everything so matter-of-factly, even when things are at their worst. And yet it’s not an emotionless recital. It’s simply that she doesn’t place the emotion at the points where you’d think we’d place it. She’s a woman who’s keenly aware of beauty, and of silence, and of comradeship. She takes joy in other peoples’ company, and in the raising of her children. She loves the countryside. She even loves her husband, sometimes. She’s very pleased, at times, to be married and making a life for herself. I think…in some ways the distance has allowed her to remember things as they really were. When she was living through those days, they weren’t horror and poverty all the time. Even when she was most impoverished, she still had beautiful, carefree days. She still had joy. In many ways, the book reminds me of the Sarashina Diary, in which the anonymous author in a few words skips over her marriage and her bereavement and the children she bears, and instead spends many pages describing a conversation she had out in a snowy field with a strange traveller.

Reading such a good book!!! Katherine Heiny’s STANDARD DEVIATION

9780385353816One of my happiest finds of the last year was Katherine Heiny’s story collection, Single, Mellow, Carefree, which was so good I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard of the author before. So when I was browsing books on audible, I was ecstatic when I saw the author had delivered a novel: Standard Deviation

It is so good! I actually can’t believe I had never heard of the book before. I know literary writers are always frightened of being shunted off into the women’s fiction ghetto (something that Heiny, with blurbs by Louise Erdrich and a publisher like Knopf, has obviously avoided), but this book has the things that make the best women’s fiction stand out: humor, zest for life, a focus on relationships, and larger-than-life characters.

I adore this book. I am actually restricting how often I listen to it (I only allow myself to listen whilst on walks) because I’ll be sad when it’s over.

The book’s protagonist is this dude in his mid-fifties, Graham, who’s been married to his second wife, forty year old Audra, for about twelve years. They’ve got a ten year old son who has pretty high-functioning autistism (kid loves origami and becomes increasingly involved with an origami club full of middle-aged men who also have autism). And Audra is really compelling. Okay, it’s possible I am only saying this because I am a man and because she verges on Manic Pixie Dream Girl status, but she also reminds me of plenty of people I know. She’s just this strange combination of self-absorbed and empathetic that, both in real life and on the page, is very compelling. For instance, she immediately ferrets out every detail about every person she meets. She collects gossip and extraneous information. Although she comes off as kind of ditzy, because she doesn’t know, like, history and science and stuff, she also has a remarkable amount of information about how systems work: how to get into college, how to get jobs, how to make friends. And she can read people with astounding accuracy.

She’s also got problems! She’s a pathological liar, and she gets inappropriately drunk. She also has a history of sexual misadventure, which includes hooking up with Graham while he was still married to his first wife, Elspeth.

Twelve years later, Graham and Audra are married, and he runs into Elspeth in the supermarket. They eat lunch together, and he begins to marvel at how different she is from Audra: she’s very cold and controlled and quiet. He wonders how one guy could’ve ever loved two such different women. And in some ways he wonders if maybe Elspeth isn’t a better fit for him.

Of course Audra gets involved. She befriends Elspeth, and for awhile the couple doubledates with Elspeth and her boyfriend. But then shit gets more complicated and well I don’t know. I’m not nearly finished with the book. But I highly recommend it! This book just makes you, I don’t know, it makes you feel hope for contemporary realist fiction. For the future of the novel of manners. Like, yeah, there is still life left in this old beast.

Onward to the next thing

I’ve never felt more definitively “between projects” than I do right now. I mean for the first time in three years I’m neither under contract nor am I currently working on a manuscript. I do have ten thousand words of a literary novel for adults that I’m pretty stoked on, and I think I’ll get back to that later in the summer. But in the meantime there are a few things I’ve wanted to try. I don’t know. These are exciting times. It’s still amazing to me sometimes that I’ve actually written novels. Like these whole huge long things. I’ve written them. One even got published! And didn’t do too poorly either. What a weird, weird thing. I still feel like a total beginner / outsider. Maybe this is what imposter syndrome feels like. I’ve never thought that I suffered from it, but perhaps I do.

And yet I don’t know. Part of it is that I still don’t feel fully grown up or mature or anything like that. I mean I do in my life. In my life I’ve pretty much got everything under control. But in my writing I still feel like I haven’t taken control of my full power. Not exactly sure where or how to do that…but I guess you just have to keep trying.

“I don’t know the answer to that, and I’m glad it’s not my job to figure it out.”

Over pride weekend, I was at a brunch where we began discussing, as happened at pride brunches around the country, the numerous reasons why Hillary lost.

To be honest, this is not something I have a huge opinion about. It does seem like Hillary could’ve done better, but it also seems like something of a moral hazard question. Like, if a few states had swung the other way, we wouldn’t be having this talk at all. Like do you guys remember 2008? Where they were more or less even in the polls until the economy crashed in September? And afterward all the talk was about what an amazing politician Obama was?

He was definitely an amazing politician, but would he have become president if AIG hadn’t gone bankrupt? I dunno. But if he’d lost the story would’ve been different. And why should it be? Why should the presence or absence of calamity change the story?

So the truth is I don’t know why Hillary lost. I’m not convinced it was Russia. I don’t know that it was the Comey letter. It may’ve been voter suppression: it’s hard for me to say!

Lately I’ve been falling back more and more on “I don’t know.” And that’s because oftentimes it’s the only honest answer you can give. Like there’re plenty of people out there who talk in these slippery slope arguments. They’re like, well, doesn’t America need an immigration policy? Can America just have open borders? Should people just flood in and be able to work without any controls?

Many of my friends would have answers for these questions. I don’t. As far as I can see,  open borders aren’t on the table, so why argue about them, unless it’s for the sake of arguing? I have my moral opinions, which is that it’s inhumane to deport people who’ve made their lives in this country and who have, often, been good and decent citizens. In many cases they’ve even paid taxes! And that’s oftentimes all I really need!

Or people are like: how do we stop police from killing black people?

Shit, I don’t know! I know that I would really very much like it to stop. I feel like it’s not really my job to provide detailed policy proposals to make this happen: it’s only my job to be part of a constituency that’s in favor of change.

I do think that running a government and creating laws is a pretty complicated job. There is a role for technocrats and wonks and centrists. The job of the political process is to set priorities. Politicians cannot decide what’re the most important things to be done; they rely on elections to agglomerate the voice of the people. But once they know what people want, it’s their job to figure out how to do that shit.

The downside, unfortunately, is that people oftentimes want some pretty messed-up stuff! Like since November 8th, people have been saying, “We’re gonna stop Donald Trump this way” or “Don’t let Donald Trump do that stuff” or “Make sure Washington knows that this shit isn’t normal!”

But, err, didn’t we have an eighteen month long election whose entire point was figuring out what exactly it is that Americans care about? And apparently Americans really care about immigration! It completely baffles me, honestly, but then again I am a brown person. Americans really care about repealing Obamacare. Probably because they think it mostly benefits brown people. They really care about building a wall. They really care about banning muslims. You can spin the election however you want, but it’s pretty clear that Americans care about that shit.

And this time around you can’t even say that the election got bought by establishment interests, because it wasn’t. You think the establishment cares about immigration? No way, they have no problem with open borders. This nativism is entirely a grass-roots thing.

In this case, the political process worked. It told our government exactly what the American people want from it. What they want is horrifying and stupid, but I don’t think the government is going to ignore it. Just like in the UK, the government could’ve ignored the Brexit vote, but they didn’t. It’s like, they had a vote on Brexit: the people spoke; they said what they wanted. That’s the system. It sucks.

Our system has judicial review. The courts are doing their best to block Trump. That’s pretty good. Thumbs up to the founding fathers. But other than that, what is there to do? All the calling your senators and congresspeople in the world isn’t gonna change the fact that we just had an election that was fought on exactly these issues, and our side lost.

So what comes next? Well…I don’t really know.