Seven Ways To Jane

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Book excerpt

Chapter One - The Idea

 “You are not who you think you are.” -  Silvia Hartmann

Was everything a lie? All these other Jane Waldens, what the hell was that for? To teach me a lesson? Great. Got it Fate, thanks. But, did you have to take everything? I mean, what has it been, ten days on the road? Less than that? I hold this stupid book in my hand, this awesome, stunning beautiful book while I wait for my ridiculously delayed flight at La Guardia.

Okay, Fate –  I’m over the cliff, my rope is frayed and I’m spent, and I’m sobbing, and I’m slipping. I have to know. Show me the connections. What was the actual link in the chain that started this?

Wait… oh yeah, it was that night. That night, and the liquor ice cream. 

(Fate here - note to Jane: It started exactly   eleven days ago…)

“Fired. Sacked. Picture of Todd stuffed into a file box, shown the door. Shit.” spewed Jane Walden, pacing her tiny apartment floor.

Christian pushed the glasses up his nose. “Calm down. That’s why I brought the Snobar ice cream and bottle of Fireball. Okay, so the lousy PR internship didn’t work out. Time to finally write a book. It’s your oldest dream.”

“Just write a book, he says, my one true friend. Wait....” Jane paced some more. “You said there is also booze in the ice cream?”

Christian nodded with a wry smile.

“Genius move, Snobar people.” Jane reverted to her tirade. “I’m not even with Todd anymore, but that’s the one personal thing that was on my desk. Well, that and the picture of you and me making faces… okay, I’m rambling. Back to your point, my beautiful, brilliant, bespectacled Christian: people who don’t write just don’t get it. To write, you need an idea first. Sure, you have been super supportive of my writing since High School. I mean, we worked on the school newspaper together….”

 “Also, I was an English Lit major, don’t forget.” Christian reminded.

Jane allowed that. “Yes, but writing a book is a big thing. Where’s the idea?  The idea, I repeat, while imagining bold curvy neon letters, blinking on and off like every sign outside a film noir hotel room: I need a killer IDEA.”

Christian ignored the rising drama, and took a shot of Fireball.

Jane continued, “Yes, I write stunningly amazing prose and kick-ass poetry… that no one reads. Not to mention, my claim-to-zero-fame is as the writer of in-depth piercing exposé of school water polo team in-fighting. Plus, my friend, I’ve peeked out into the real-world -  it’s a big, wild, weird, very crowded world of wannabe authors.”

“You can do anything.” Christian tempered the compliment with her old nickname, “Little Plain Jane just needs a hook. A simple, elegant idea that is at once a plot, a great story foundation, and can be filled with all the dark and interesting machinations of human experience.” He shrugged, smiling. “How hard can it be?” Christian swallowed another spoonful of Snobar and decided to sip his shot glass of Fireball. “Okay. Let’s think of one. How about your family? They’re a little crazy. Some story potential there.”

Jane pondered this as she took another shot of Fireball. She laid down across her bed, on her stomach, in the apartment she was about to lose, sans job. Her fingers absently swirled her light brown hair. The cinnamon whiskey gave her a delicious burn as it traveled all the way to her toes. She soothed it with a spoonful of Brandy Alexander Chocolate Chip. She rejected Christian’s idea. “Nope. Not crazy enough. I need Blanche Dubois crazy.”

“Your sister’s crazy enough. Nice mid-century reference, by the way.” They clinked shot glasses to celebrate Jane’s cleverness. “I’m not sure Blanche from Streetcar Named Desire was crazy, exactly. Well, maybe by the end…”

“But my sister’s boring crazy. Like everyone-knows-someone-like-her crazy. Besides, If I wrote about her, she’d kill me with her silent, ever-present judgement.”

Christian rubbed the back of his neck, his short dark hair neatly rounded at the back. Jane noticed the familiar motion that accompanied his hard thinking. If he was hot, it would be sexy, Jane thought. She said, “Don’t think too hard, my little Christian Jew. Might start a fire up there in your noggin.”

“That old wildly racist nickname again? Okay, Plain Jane – if we really are reviving the old monikers we gave each other. Also, watch it - you know I’m smarter than you.” he said, “Besides, I’ve told you Jacobson is not a Jewish surname, remember?”

She shrugged and took another shot. “I’m forced to reminisce back over our twenty-three years, after my recent financial reversals. How long have we known each other, anyway?”

“Eleven. We were eleven-year-olds when we met. Me in the giant thick glasses and you in the Laura Ingalls-inspired floral dress.”

Jane laughed, “Oh my God, I remember that. Two ready-made victims for sixth grade bullying.”

“You were the only one who would talk to me.” Christian smiled. “I think the teachers were embarrassed for us.” He chased the ice cream with the rest of his shot. “This ice cream is really good.”

“Heck yah, it is. Did they have other flavors?”

“Yes. But tonight called for chocolate,” he said, pushing the glasses up on his nose. “Jane, the real problem is, you don’t really know yourself.”

That made Jane pause. “Wait, me? I know myself… hey, I got the job I wanted.”

“Correction, you got the internship for the job you kinda-sorta wanted – the one you wanted only after panicking Junior year and changing your major. A nice paid PR internship that warned you up front that they might not keep you on after three months.” He paused, realizing this may be too much truth, “Look, I’m not trying to get your hackles up…”

“My hackles are fine, jerk.”

“I’m just saying I think you should figure out who you are. Write about that.”

“Nope, no hackles here, A-hole.” She wouldn’t even offer him side-eyes.

“Maybe a fictionized version of you, Jane Walden, would bring about realization, epiphany, cognizance.”

“You always try to diffuse me with fancy words.” Jane pulled back her rising hackles, but wouldn’t admit that to Christian. “But… you may have a point there, my fine feathered Christian. I’ve always read that a writer writes to find out what they think.”

“All those online writing seminars paid off.” Christian nodded his approval of her line of thinking as he took another shot of Fireball with an ice cream chaser.

“Maybe I can figure myself out by writing about me?” Jane finished.

“Bingo,” he said, tapping his nose, indicating approval. “On the nosey.”

Jane’s face dropped. “But the problem is that I’m boring. Sure, I’m stunningly beautiful – she says ironically, but even I know I’m not that exciting. You gave me the Plain Jane moniker for a reason.”

“It’s not true. It’s an ironic name, because you’re so beautiful. That’s why I gave it to you back in the day; my punishment for the un-charming Christian Jew thing you saddled me with.”

She glanced sideways. “You do have a big nose…”

“Racist!” He screamed in mock indignation.

They laughed and clinked their plastic shot glasses, saluting each other with burning cinnamon.

He grabbed her laptop and opened it. “Aha! Let’s see what the universe thinks of you.”

“The password is…” she began.

He was already in, “Todd_is_hot. I know, you haven’t changed it since forever. My God, you still use underscores. You really should change it. Wait… I’m not going to find naked pics of him, am I?”

“Those are on my phone.”

“Gross.”

“Maybe I should write about him.” she glanced at the picture of Todd, the one formerly on her work desk. “My Gabriel Oak.”

Christian stopped. “Oh no. Was that an obscure nineteenth century literary reference?”

She laughed, “Yes, I knew you would get that one.”

“Ugh, Thomas Hardy. I hated that book. It should have been called Far from the Maddening Whore. She turned down fine Mr. Oak in the beginning, married the soldier jerk, then agreed to marry the old rich farmer, then welches on the deal and he ends up crazy. After all that, she married Oak anyway. I cringe at books where people can’t make up their minds. Besides, Todd’s more like the soldier guy that broke her heart.”

“Are you kidding? I loved that book! Todd wasn’t like Sergeant Troy,” Jane started to remember Todd’s numerous crimes, but pulled away from those thoughts. “And it’s Far from the Madding Crowd, not maddening.”

“Sorry, I feel I must correct all grammatical literary crimes. Thus spoke Zarathustra. Not Spake. Nietzsche was a dick, too.”

“Well I guess you gotta make your stand somewhere.”

Christian furrowed his brow at the laptop screen, and pushed his glasses back up. “Hmm. Well, you do pop up, but you aren’t the only Jane Walden. Wow, there are a lot of you.”

“Let me see,” She laid on her bed next to him, staring at the screen, “Wait, look at all these pics. Oh my god, are all these women named Jane Walden?”

“I think some of the Janes are just standing next to Walden Pond.” Christian arched an eyebrow. “Hold the proverbial phone. Jane, you’ve never Googled yourself?”

Jane thought about it, “You know, I don’t think I have. Maybe I did when I was younger. But, I mean, look at all these women.”

“A plethora of doppelgangers.” He agreed.

“Oh my God, Christian.” Jane jumped up and stood on the bed.

“What? Are you going to be sick?” He inched away, just in case.

“No…” She rubbed her stomach. “Well, maybe. But you’re brilliant. This idea.”

Christian rolled on his side to look up at her. “Idea? Which one?”

She slapped his butt as she returned to the bed next to him. “This brilliant idea! I took journalism. We ran the school newspaper together like dope editors, in high school and in college. So, okay. Maybe I interview other Jane Waldens. I learn their stories, I connect with them. It could be about the information age.”

Christian helped, “A cool way to connect with strangers, across all socio-economic…”

“Yes! And about how women are the same, but different…”

“It could also be about self-discovery.” Inspiration had smacked Christian, “You could be one of the Janes; tell your story. Wow. this could be about a lot of things.”

“Yes! Ten Janes! Hmm, maybe five Janes. No, that’s too few.”

Christian announced, “Seven. Seven Janes.  It’s a stronger number.”

“Yes! So, seven. That’s good! Seven stories, all about other versions of me. Finding seven Janes….”

Christian countered, “Jane in seven parts. Nope. Sounds like a crime novel…”

Jane said, “The Plain Jane Same Name Game? No, that’s dumb.”

The light dawned. Christian smiled. “Here’s your title: Seven Ways to Jane.”

Jane stood and jumped up and down on the bed. “That’s it! Seven Ways to Jane. I’ll call up six of these Janes, do phone interviews. Or internet interviews, Skype maybe. Tell their diverse stories. A modern examination of womanhood, of connection, of how we see each other, see ourselves as modern women… well, something like that. I love it!”

“It’s a good idea. You must do it, my dear.” Christian did his rub-his-neck-deep-in-thought-thing again.  “Wait – better idea - You should interview them in person.”

“Yes! Christian… wait…” Janes face grew serious. She stopped jumping.

“What is it? No, don’t stop. This is a good idea, you need to write this.”

Jane covered her mouth and shook her head. She darted to the bathroom and made it just in time. Christian followed and made sure she didn’t throw up in her hair, then made sure she got to bed. After the Snobar and Fireball whiskey finally hit them all at once, he then crashed on her cheap, squeaky, dangerously pointy Wal-Mart futon. Luckily, the idea survived the ordeal. For Jane, it burned hotter that the Fireball. This was exactly what Jane had been waiting for.

Chapter Two - Questing

“A bad beginning makes a bad ending.” – Euripides

PLAIN JANE’S BLOG JOURNAL

I’m broke. This great idea has a fatal flaw, and that’s it. Zero money. As soon as my head began to function again this morning, I first said to myself, screw my boss and my dream job, then I paused briefly to look at the pictures of Todd on my phone. (Still can’t delete those perfect abs.) I should have known from all the old Greek tragedies that the all those great-bodied gods are always assholes. Especially if they’re named Todd.

Then this Plain Jane got to work.

Holy crap, there are a lot of Jane Waldens. Even several Jane Emma Waldens. But I’ll stick to the just plain ‘Jane Waldens’ (pun intended – wait, is that a pun or irony? If I’m going to be a real writer I should know that. Anyway…). To find the most interesting stories, I will keep it a simple, high concept idea. Oh, I’ve also decided to find a book deal as I’m writing. This is a great, marketable idea. How hard could it be? Okay, I’m kind of saying that ironically. But it is a great idea.

I’ve also stopped publishing the blog for now. I’m taking the blog on the ‘down low.’ Does anyone say that anymore? I am a jumble of pop-culture anachronisms. Anyway, I’ve gone old-school and began keeping a journal again - this is just me talking to me. I had a wild panic that someone would read my blog (one of my 227 rabid fans), and steal my idea. That may seem paranoid, but the message is active on my public blog that I’m going on a life changing journey and will publish what happened later. Hopefully with a book deal.

Then the fatal flaw returns. I’m broke. How am I going to pay for this journey? I barely have enough rent money for one more month at my crappy studio with the smelly carpet (no-matter-how-many-times-I-use-that-stuff-to-make-it-go-away!). I really need to look for another job. Now.