(“Aristocrat” is not an option, apparently.  Neither is “layabout.”)

Kind of awesome, in its own way.

I had read some advice somewhere (probably in Betsy Lerner’s book)  that the best approach to submitting a manuscript is to get deeply involved in a new project at the same time.  That way, when the rejections come in, you have something else to think about (other than killing yourself).  With that in mind, I started one project and then another, but never could find any traction.  Finally, I followed the only course that made any creative sense: I picked up the story of the characters from A Perfect Wife a bit later in time.  That turned into The Burning House.   Which, for those keeping score, was a sequel to a novel that no one wanted in the first place.  As futile as it seemed, I felt good about what I was writing.  I resolved to finish it in 2011.

And I did!  I sent the manuscript for The Burning House to my proofreader, a lovely friend from graduate school, and finished the edits on New Year’s Eve.  In addition, I received some thought-provoking feedback from a reader, to the effect that A Perfect Wife didn’t have a very satisfactory ending.  In addition, people disliked the title.

So, enter the new and improved The Burning House — not a sequel to anything, but one longish novel (about 150,000 words), which contains the former A Perfect Wife as “Part I” and the thing I just finished up as “Part II.”  It has a better title.  It has an ending.  It has an arc.

And it has probably zero chance of finding a place on a bookshelf at your local retailer.  But here’s the plan: I’m going to try the whole traditional marketing thing (i.e., querying agents and maybe some small presses).  If that doesn’t work, I’m going to put it out myself through Amazon or some other service.  Maybe this time next year, you can read it on your Kindle!  It’ll be cheap, I promise.

And suddenly,  I’m brimming over with ideas for another installment in this series, if that’s what this is.  Stay tuned.

“It’s inconceivable to me that someone with a college education, or a graduate-level education, would not know before deciding to go to law school that the economy has declined over the last several years and that the job market out there is not as opportune as it might have been five, six, seven, eight years ago,” he said.

If I were him, I wouldn’t accept responsibility for ruining so many lives, either.  And he’s right — in that he didn’t personally make anyone take out loans and go to law school. Probably.

In the past four years or so, I’ve watched a number of really bright young people pull up stakes and head to law school (leaving pretty good jobs to do so!).  It breaks my heart, at least in part because these new law students of my acquintance were really the best elements of society: intelligent, determined, energetic, organized, superachievers.  (Full disclosure: A couple of them were hot.)  For whatever reason — certainly not because the head of the ABA told them so — they saw law school as a path to a better life.  Not just a path, but an escalator, a safe and  automatic improvement to their standard of living forever.

To change metaphors, my young friends thought they were buying a better class of life.  Instead, they were buying very expensive lottery tickets.

I’ve written before about how law school is not a very good deal for most people.  It isn’t.  (It’s worked out pretty well for me, but that’s another story.)  And yet new college grads fall all over themselves to go to law school, any law school, just to take advantage of this shit deal.  And the ones that I’ve spoken to are aware of the costs, in an abstract way, but are so excited to have something to do. (I’m going to be a lawyer!  Isn’t that cool?)

It’s almost as though these consumers aren’t in a good position to judge whether law school is in their ultimate best interests.  Who could do something to correct this situation?  Certainly not the head of the ABA.  Certainly not.

But when we say zero tolerance, we just mean I won’t put up with this.   We don’t mean that no one in the world will ever put up with this, unless we are sheltered.  But as she points out, there are situations in which a very bad situation is arguably better than the alternatives.  You might rather stay with your father who hits you than go live with your mother whose boyfriend wants to rape you — or, frankly, you might choose to take your chances with the boyfriend.  These are the choices made by people who don’t have resources, people who will help them, adequate information.  (And if you aren’t willing to step in and provide some help, you can’t judge that kind of choice.)

Penelope is not one of those people.  Penelope is a good example (to the extent that she’s telling the truth) of how people in these bad situations see things differently than those of us who are not.  The story about her parents and the paint, thought, is transparent bullshit of the this happened when I was a kid so it was always going to happen and couldn’t have happened any other way variety.

A: Because he was dead inside!

hahahahaha

Something about the picture accompanying that story is amazing and horrible.

I don’t know how much of what she writes is true and how much is not.  Penelope has taken to posting photographs of her life on the farm that give her stories some credibility, but the way that she writes, you know that you’re only getting one side of the story — and maybe not even one entire side.  She will often give an alarming detail but not  enough to really understand what is happening.   For example, why did she smash that lamp over her head?  Or did she? For all her openness, I don’t think that Penelope is a truth-teller; as a casual reader, I can’t tell if that’s a deliberate strategy or a side-effect of a broken brain.  And for all I know, she could be telling the unvarnished truth.  Her name is not even Penelope.  I find it frustrating, but her commentators eat it up.  I eat it up too, frankly.

In the latest craziness, she posted a photograph of a bruise on her naked hip, and stated that the Farmer had slammed her into a bed post.  The picture is also a pretty good shot of her naked legs and rear end. (This was under the typically oblique title, “The Psychology of Quitting.”

After this post, her comments section exploded, with a war between the “Get Out, Now!” brigade and the “It’s Not Your Fault, I Love You” alliance, along with the usual trolls.  A couple of her commenters even called the police (from wherever they were), and the police apparently went to the farm.  Another commenter is apparently a neighbor, and reported seeing the lights from the cop car.

And what is my take on this?  As I said, I can’t know how much of what Penelope writes is true, whether that picture is real, whether she’s asking for help or not.  Certainly, a blog post is not the most direct method of asking for help.  If she isn’t asking for help, what is she doing?  Creating drama?  Driving blog traffic? Performance art? Trying to turn the world against her boyfriend, while at the same time becoming a martyr?  Or is the whole thing a massive fiction?

Penelope followed this all up with a post defending (?) women who don’t leave their partners after domestic abuse.   She concludes with: “And that’s why I’m staying with the Farmer.”

And I’m left with a question — what was this?