✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
LightNews LightNews
banner
thecrumpet.bsky.social
✨Meagan Thompson-Mann is back in the querying trenches🫠
@thecrumpet.bsky.social
1.4K followers 1.5K following 880 posts
Legally non-blonde / writer of minor repute (I'm in the Congressional record!) / querying 1st novel THIS ENDS NOW / noodlings at meagantheauthor.com / co-host of podcast BAD LIT FRIENDS (@badlitfriends.bsky.social‬) / recovering English major
Posts Replies Media Videos
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 14 #WIPsnips – “week”

It’s not that she’d rather hang with Gregory than her roommate Hallie—because Jenny definitely doesn’t. But she’s in NYC to burst from her chrysalis, and figures the soundtrack to metamorphosis is more likely Haydn than hipster. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
If Jenny was honest, and she did try to be honest in most things, a midnight show in a marginally cooled Brooklyn basement on a Thursday night sounded like two hours of getting mashed into other people’s sweat-soaked bodies while music she could listen to just fine on her iPod mini blew out her eardrums. But Hallie was insistent. “This is the cultural zeitgeist we’re talking about,” she said, flopping onto her stomach next to where Jenny sat on the living room floor. She propped her head of sproingy curls in her hands and affected the expression of a beatific Pre-Raphaelite muse. “Pitchfork basically anointed them folk rock gods last month.” Jenny continued flipping through that week’s New Yorker, looking for the short piece in “Goings on About Town” about the Brentano String Quartet concert Gregory was taking her to the following evening. “So you said.” “I mean, this is the kind of thing you can do when you’re in New York, know what I mean?” Hallie blew at an errant ringlet determined to obscure her eye. “This is part of why we’re here.” “What, to get bankers to buy us overpriced drinks at some hipster bar in Park Slope?” “They’re not all bankers, J. Some of them are lawyers.”
November 14, 2025 at 5:22 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 11 #WIPsnips – “burger”

In this snip from “This Ends Now,” Lainey reflects on the hellscape that was dating in her late 30s in Los Angeles, before future husband Scott barged into her life. NOT THAT THE AUTHOR KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT THIS HELLSCAPE AND IS THANKFUL FOR ESCAPING IT. (Ahem.)
What was more shocking was how they all talked about their feelings all the time, including the men. Especially the men. And not only Scott. Half the guys in L.A. I went out with before him confused “date” with “psychoanalysis with bottle service.” Over expensive burgers and strip mall sushi, I learned all about their grasping ex-wives, their well-paid but soul-sucking jobs, the kids (often very young) being kept from their doting daddies by she-devil moms. Look, I tried to give each putz—Kevin or Stu or Trevor—a chance. Maybe he’s nervous, I’d say to myself. Maybe he wants me to understand he’s in touch with his feelings. But if we got halfway through our oysters and he hadn’t asked me a thing about my life, I’d flag the waiter—hey, can I have another sauvignon blanc? The gloomier my date—Gianluca or Brad or whoever—got, the more glasses followed. I don’t feel too bad about it, even now. I got fed and watered; they got some therapy. Sometimes I let them go down on me back at their shitty divorce apartments, if I wanted to. I didn’t usually. I rarely saw any of them again.
November 11, 2025 at 5:31 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 9 #WIPsnips – “picture”

On one of those blistering summer Sundays in NYC when you feel like your toenails are sweating, cooling off at the Met is good idea. It would be a better idea if Gregory could stop being a condescending prick for an hour. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
The museum quietened as they moved from gallery to gallery, their footsteps soft upon the polished floors as they entered the American Wing. The rooms narrowed here, the lighting dimmed, the air chilly enough that Jenny rubbed her arms as they paused in front of painting upon painting. Gregory kept rattling on about how Homer and Bierstadt and Remington captured the essential loneliness of America as its people pushed ever further west. “Your people,” he said at one point with another pulse to her hand, but she didn’t squeeze back. He was so curious about Iowa, at times peppering her with strange questions that made her wonder if he’d ever stepped foot in a state that didn’t border one ocean or another. Was there really a gigantic butter cow at the county fair? (Yes.) Was high school football a religion? (Blasphemous, but not untrue.) Was sex ed limited to abstinence and shame? Jenny had given him a long look for that one. “Gregory. I was raised by two progressives who caucused for Howard Dean in a church basement. They made sure I knew how to put a condom on a banana by sophomore year of high school.” He’d called that hot, which seemed to miss the point. She’d let him kiss her anyway.
November 9, 2025 at 6:06 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
I only succeeded by keeping this in mind
A thoughtful raccoon looks out of a car window with the text in white bold superimposed over the image: Just because you're trash doesn't mean you can't do great things. It's called garbage can, not garbage cannot
November 8, 2025 at 9:14 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
UMM THIS JUST HAPPENED
The poster has just completed a full developmental re-edit of her manuscript and this image--allegedly proof--consisting only of black text on a white background states: THE END Eighth draft/developmental re-edit complete: November 8, 2025 10:15 AM
November 8, 2025 at 6:32 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 8 #WIPsnips – “little”

Sometimes it’s size, and sometimes it’s perspective. Jenny and Gregory are discussing Shelley’s “Mont Blanc,” but is that really all they’re talking about? As he likes to tell his students, “There’s no text without subtext.” A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
“Gregory,” she said, and the shape of it was wobbly in her mouth. She decided she liked it. “I guess… I get what it means to be in awe of vastness. Like, back in Mansfield—that’s where I’m from in Iowa, it’s up by the Minnesota border—sometimes, I’d be outside at night, just to look at the stars, and I felt so small. Like the night sky stretched on forever, and here I was, one miniscule person, but that was okay. That my smallness was my place in the world.” Gregory leaned closer again, even though Malcolm had turned the music down a few songs ago. “Go on.” “But Shelley isn’t just talking about Mont Blanc, about the mountain, is he? He’s talking about that moment when you’re facing down something enormous, something completely unconscious of you, little you, and…” She trailed off, embarrassed. She’d never exposed herself like this to anyone, let alone to a teacher, and she ducked her head. “And?” The room’s warmth squeezed the breath from her lungs, like she was drowning without a drop of water nearby. She looked up, and Gregory’s brown eyes were kind, so kind, had she ever known someone so kind? “And beautiful. Beautiful, and terrifying. Beneath the sky, I was nothing to the stars, no matter how beautiful I thought they were. The vastness scares me, but I have to look.” Gregory—for he was Gregory now, as he ever would be from now on—exhaled. “‘Power dwells apart in its tranquility,’” he recited. “‘Remote, serene, and inaccessible…’ Inaccessible, but we can’t keep ourselves from trying to touch it, can we?” Jenny nodded and finished her glass. “You’re right, Gregory.” Yes, she liked the shape of his name in her mouth just fine.
November 8, 2025 at 3:43 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
How did I not know you are a fellow Nutmegger???
An anime-style character wearing a UConn hat and a Whalers jersey holds a slice of New Haven-style pizza in one hand and a bottle of Two Roads beer in the other, standing in front of the Hartford skyline. Text at the bottom reads "CONNECTICUT MENTIONED" in white capital letters.
November 8, 2025 at 5:19 AM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 6 #WIPsnips – “penultimate”

Hoo boy, reaching into the vaults for this synonym. Somewhere out there on the interwebs lurks the 500k fake blog of a character I created with my writing buddy @kirkrafferty.com for the purposes of forum mischief-making. This was part of her entry for 1/10/20.
The days in this new year are passing too quickly, filled up by all of the very last tasks required to pack up our lives in Berkeley and transplant ourselves to the sunny kingdom by the sea — truly by the sea this time, as our new apartment is a scant five blocks from the beach. On a slightly dismal Friday morning — my second-to-last in the once-tidy A-frame studio — I ticked off my duties, one by one. ☒ Clean bathtub ☒ Beat rag rug ☒ Countertops cleaned with vinegar and lemon spray ☒ Sweep deck ☒ Books back to library (check in loft to make sure Alex not hiding any) By lunchtime the day’s list of chores had shrunk to the one that made my head hurt even more than the fumes from the Ka-Boom bathroom cleaner. ☐ Call Julian
November 6, 2025 at 5:28 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
GREEN DOT x CLEOPATRA AND FRANKENSTEIN

SURFACE TENSION: The problem with studying women who make bad choices? You start to see yourself all over the syllabus. Jenny’s entanglement with her English professor isn’t fiction, but she’s starting to wish it was. #A #UP #W #QuestPit
A collage of photos: a young woman in repose with her eyes closed, in half-profile, sun reflecting on her face; a man’s hand pushing an elevator button; John Singer Sargent’s “Portrait of Madame X,” a painting of a young woman in a sleeveless black dress; a black and white photo of a man embracing a woman from behind, in front of what looks like hotel room window sheers; red and white dahlia flowers on a black background; looking over the shoulder of a person reading a manuscript; a black and white photo taken from the vantage of a woman looking down at her black high heels; a view down a hallway where doorways are visible on the walls; a collection of botanical books open to pages with flowers; a black and white photo of a hotel bed, with an open book, a room service plate, and what looks like recent signs of intimacy; a colorful row of books on a shelf; the title of the WIP “Surface Tension” is superimposed in a central rectangle.
November 5, 2025 at 9:09 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
PINEAPPLE STREET x SANDWICH

THIS ENDS NOW: A serial marriage-jilter hits a swanky wellness retreat to learn why she keeps fleeing perfect husbands. But healing means facing her nastiest ghost: the manipulative, brilliant first love whose poison still runs in her veins. #A #UP #Q #QuestPit
A collage: Row 1: Snowy red covered bridge surrounded by bare winter trees and icy branches; close-up of a person removing a gold wedding ring from their finger; vintage map of Northern Vermont showing towns like St. Johnsbury and Walden in pastel tones; text in white serif font on a dark green background: “This Ends Now,” accented with a red and orange autumn leaf graphic. Row 2: a woman kneeling on a windowsill, peering out a rain-flecked window next to 2 lit candles, with city lights glowing outside and icicles hanging from the window frame; a vase of pink carnations on a desk beside a stack of hardcover journals and scattered trinkets including a journal with pressed flowers. Row 3: A man and a woman embracing on a couch in low lighting, with the woman kissing his forehead while she sits on his lap; a dimly lit, narrow library aisle lined with tall shelves, stretching into a warmly lit vanishing point, an image from Yale’s Sterling Library stacks; a woman reading a typed document marked with red handwritten editorial notes; a hand holding a lit match in darkness with the flame casting a warm glow.
November 5, 2025 at 6:14 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
THE RACHEL INCIDENT × THE GUEST

SURFACE TENSION: As Jenny analyzes literary heroines who trade freedom for security, her professor's seductive brilliance lures her into the same trap. Academic theory turns to nightmarish praxis as her thesis begins reading like her diary. #A #UP #W #QuestPit
A collage of photos: John Singer Sargent’s “Portrait of Madame X,” a painting of a young woman in a sleeveless black dress; a classroom with a dark green chalkboard illuminated by the sun, with several wooden desks; library books on a shelf held behind iron bars; a man and woman embracing, both in rather woolly sweaters; a picture taken over the shoulder of a woman who is holding a polaroid picture of another woman; several drooping, dying flowers against a dark background; 7 or 8 old books, lying on floorboards, and with their pages opened as if the books had been dropped; a pink and white flip phone with a heart charm on its closed cover, next to a bottle of pink nail polish and a pink lipgloss; a black and white photo of a young woman in ¾ profile with her eyes mostly closed—over this the title of the WIP “Surface Tension” is superimposed.
November 5, 2025 at 2:41 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
ALL FOURS x THE WEDDING PEOPLE

THIS ENDS NOW: 2 husbands, 3 hometowns, 1 wedding planner ready to stop staging messy exits from her own marriages. But there's no breaking the cycle until Lainey confronts her clever, cunning first love, who's still dying to put her in her place. #A #UP #Q #QuestPit
A collage of photos: row 1 (l-r): the interior of Yale University’s Sterling Memorial Library, showing a Gothic cathedral-like entrance; a classic red Vermont farmhouse in winter, covered in snow, nestled among bare trees; a woman silhouetted against a frosted window, while sunlight spills through the window; row 2 (l-r): two hands reaching for each other in low lighting against a black background; a dark-haired woman floating face upwards in water, surrounded by white flowers, her eyes open; Spilled glass candle with wax still aflame, flickering against a black backdrop; row 3 (l-r): Sunlight streaming through a quiet pine forest, illuminating a narrow dirt path; black and white photo of a person gripping the back of another person’s head from behind ; a man’s hand clasping a woman’s hand showing her wedding ring, with a snow-covered fir tree in the background; row 4 (l-r): three antique keys on twine; dark green leaves, covered in dew; the title of the novel, “This Ends Now” written on a scrap of spiral bound, lined notepaper.
November 5, 2025 at 11:18 AM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 4 #WIPsnips – “steel”

Jenny’s desperately trying not to think about the various uses of neckties and what Gregory might do with them on this shopping trip. While her tie-picker is perfectly calibrated, her man-picker's thoroughly busted. A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension.”
Jenny clutched the tie while he flicked through a nearby rack for a solid color shirt in his size. He yanked a crisp, off-white button-down from the rack and ducked into one of the fitting rooms. Through a gap in the cubicle’s dark curtains, she caught a flash of his undershirt as he changed and did not look away as he slipped each button on the shirt through its matching hole. When his eye met hers in the fitting room mirror, the necktie she was still holding fluttered through her grip, landing on the tips of her ballet flats. Gregory smiled and slid open the curtain along its stainless-steel rod. “I think you have something of mine,” he said, extending his arm. “I’d ask you to tie me up, but that’s probably not the right wording.” Don’t think of it. Don’t think of it. “Very funny,” she said instead, scooping it up from the floor to drape it over his arm. “Plus, I’m better at it than you.” When her eyes widened, he cleared his throat in his fist and added: “At tying a four-in-hand, that is.” She studied how he knotted the silk around his neck, how he wrapped one length around the other, how something so uncomplicated as a strip of cloth might metamorphose into a blossom of gray. The transformation was complete: serious, approachable; scholar, aesthete. “Perfect,” she said as he turned to face her, and she meant it.
November 4, 2025 at 5:52 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
Joan Aiken's "Wolves of Willoughby Chase" -- end of, full stop. Nothing like peril, satire, heaps of sensory detail, comic relief in the middle of the truly ghastly, the beauty of female friendship, and adults being absolute fucking monsters.
Front cover of a paperback edition of Joan Aiken's "The Wolves of Willoughby Chase," published by Dell Yearling Books. The cover illustration is of two girls bundled in winter wear, huddled together on a snowy hill under a red and black sky, while three black wolves with red eyes snarl below them.
November 2, 2025 at 7:43 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
November 2 #WIPsnips – “cobweb”

At a midrange women’s retreat (think: Paltrow-esque vibes on a middle-class budget), Lainey’s seeking enlightenment as to why she can’t stop bolting from seemingly perfect relationships. Pan flutes: not optional. A snip from “This Ends Now.”
At the session’s start, Amiee mentioned that any noises in the room and any discomfort we might encounter were part of our journey. “Don’t fight them,” she reminded us while we settled into repose. “Incorporate the sounds. Move your body. Find your peace.” My hips moaned: Sit up. You can’t find your path if you’re hobbling. The wheel of images kept spinning, pausing, spinning again. Still no path. My old backyard in Pasadena; the impossible blue of Julie’s swimming pool. The unending blur of Kansas sunflower fields through my car’s windshield as I tracked westward, away from Sam, yellow and green and yellow and green. Move your body. So, I did. I swayed from side to side, stretching one leg over the other, like I was limbering up for a workout. The pinching tightness slackened as I rolled my pelvis, relief spreading low in my back. Just as my overfull mind was forming a what the fuck is this hippie shit in response to what sounded like Cath taking a turn on the pan flute, I rocked open my hips. Fuck. A heavy shot of energy flooded my lower spine, anchoring me to the mat while I felt light, light, light. Lighter than thistledown, flimsier than a cobweb. Drifting, but tethered to the body below. This was some hippie shit, fine. But Jeezum Crow, look! The goddamn path.
November 2, 2025 at 5:25 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
October 31 #WIPsnips – “monster”

CW: implied SA. On first blush, you might not think Gregory’s a monster. After all, he's handsome, cultured, witty and attentive. So attentive. Too attentive. Sometimes the greatest monsters lurk behind the loveliest masks. A snip from "This Ends Now."
“What about Lucas’s party?” I whispered. Gregory lifted his chin. “I got you out of an unsafe situation Nicky put you in. Those guys were drunk. Anything could have happened to you. Anything at all. Didn’t you thank me later? Didn’t you?” “I did.” It was true. After he finished with me that night—after he cleaned me up, dressed me in a nightgown, wiped away my tears—he made me thank him. Anything could have happened. Anything at all. “So I’m the monster? I’m the big, bad wolf still blowing at your door? You take no responsibility for the pain you caused me?” Through the door’s frosted windowpane, I glimpsed a dark, blurry shape. Two sharp knocks echoed through the room. “Professor?” a young woman called, her voice muffled. “Are office hours over?” His scowl untwisted into a bland, blank stare. “Just a minute!” “You’re the monster,” I hissed.
October 31, 2025 at 3:15 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
HELLO BEAUTIFUL x SANDWICH

THIS ENDS NOW: A serial marriage-jilter hits a swanky wellness retreat to learn why she keeps fleeing perfect husbands. But healing means facing her nastiest ghost: the manipulative, brilliant first love whose poison still runs in her veins. #UP #Q #A #GhostPit
A collage: Row 1: Snowy red covered bridge surrounded by bare winter trees and icy branches; close-up of a person removing a gold wedding ring from their finger; vintage map of Northern Vermont showing towns like St. Johnsbury and Walden in pastel tones; text in white serif font on a dark green background: “This Ends Now,” accented with a red and orange autumn leaf graphic. Row 2: a woman kneeling on a windowsill, peering out a rain-spattered window next to 2 lit candles, with city lights glowing outside and icicles hanging from the window frame; a vase of pink carnations on a desk beside a stack of hardcover journals and scattered trinkets including a journal with pressed flowers. Row 3: A man and a woman embracing on a couch in low lighting, with the woman kissing his forehead while she sits on his lap; a dimly lit, narrow library aisle lined with tall shelves, stretching into a warmly lit vanishing point, an image from Yale’s Sterling Library stacks; a woman reading a typed document marked with red handwritten notes; a hand holding a lit match in darkness.
October 30, 2025 at 8:31 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
ALL FOURS x THE WEDDING PEOPLE

THIS ENDS NOW: Ditching perfectly good husbands is a bad look, especially for a wedding planner. But there's no breaking the cursed pattern until Lainey summons her first love—the man who whispered she was too much, too little and never enough. #GhostPit #Q #A #UP
October 30, 2025 at 4:20 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
THE WEDDING PEOPLE x THE PAPER PALACE

THIS ENDS NOW: Matrimonial escape artist Lainey is ready to stop running from good men. But 1st she must exorcise the spectre of her ex—the phantom who programmed her to bolt from love & whose vengeful spirit haunts her chance at happiness. #UP #A #GhostPit #Q
A collage of photos: row 1 (l-r): the interior of Yale University’s Sterling Memorial Library, showing a Gothic cathedral-like entrance; a classic red Vermont farmhouse in winter, covered in snow, nestled among bare trees; a woman silhouetted against a frosted window, while sunlight spills through the window; row 2 (l-r): two hands reaching for each other in low lighting against a black background; a dark-haired woman floating face upwards in water, surrounded by white flowers, her eyes open; Spilled glass candle with wax still aflame, flickering against a black backdrop; row 3 (l-r): Sunlight streaming through a quiet pine forest, illuminating a narrow dirt path; black and white photo of a person gripping the back of another person’s head from behind ; a man’s hand clasping a woman’s hand showing her wedding ring, with a snow-covered fir tree in the background; row 4 (l-r): three antique keys on twine; dark green leaves, covered in dew; the title of the novel, “This Ends Now” written on a scrap of spiral bound, lined notepaper.
October 30, 2025 at 9:47 AM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
October 30 #WIPsnips – “broomstick”

Vibing with vacuum today—no witchery in this snip from “This Ends Now” but Lainey’s made a deal with the devil by moving in with Gregory. I mean, it’s 1998: can’t a woman eat some pizza and watch TV in peace without being accused of being a slattern? (Nope.)
No fancy internship this year. Gregory was sticking around in New Haven for the summer as a research assistant for his departmental mentor, living in the off-campus apartment he'd keep for senior year. When he asked me to move in with him—“make the next step,” as he put it—I said yes. After all, I wouldn’t have to pay a single thing, he said, and wouldn’t that be a relief? Mom always said not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Perhaps I should have. Domestic bliss, it wasn’t. Maybe I left half-finished mugs of coffee beneath the bed, maybe I forgot to check whether he was working on his senior thesis before inviting Nicky over to watch Will & Grace and drop pizza sauce on our new sofa. Hardly hanging offenses, except to Gregory. I was lazy and disorganized, thoughtless about how we were sharing our lives. I would, he said, never, ever find as loving a partner as he, so I’d better think about what I wanted before I was stupid enough to go out without him. My clothes were atrocious, my bangs were worse, and my friends beyond the pale. He ran the vacuum around my feet in a manner I can only describe as accusatory. He said he loved me every day, and I believed him. I just had to.
October 29, 2025 at 5:58 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
October 28 #WIPsnips – “costume”

A snip from my #WIP “Surface Tension”: Jenny's BIG MAD that her former seminar leader Dr. Gregory Shipp has elbowed his way into her NYC summer and (worse) tempted her to think of him: what if? What if? (Spoiler alert—the answer is the Hindenburg, but make it sexy.)
She headed east on 23rd Street, the soggy air wrapping around her like wet gauze. In the lingering heat of the day, she wished she’d opted for one of her cotton camp shirts instead of this nearly-but-not-quite silk blouse. Sure, the green was flattering, and Tessa had said she looked sophisticated in it, elegant even. Like a grown-up person, which is all she craved. To be serious, and taken seriously on her own terms. To be more than a farm girl in a polka dot dress who used to help her dad slaughter pigs. Jenny’s heels clicked furiously past the distinctive wedge of the Flatiron Building, which rose before her like a ship’s prow. Not even twenty-four hours. It had been less than a day since Gregory Shipp had sauntered up to her check-in desk like he had more right to be at Becker’s launch party than she did. Who was the one with the Serif security badge, huh, mister? Oh, my apologies, Doctor. Yes, the Doctor is in—in every part of her mind, that is, with his stupid flowers and his stupid name-dropping of Martin Abernathy and Bob Thorne. Like she wasn’t supposed to be impressed? Please. Please. She rounded the corner onto Park Avenue South, grinding her molars as she leaned into the turn. That man had the unmitigated gall to materialize looking like that, the linen shirt, the rolled-up sleeves, the rustic jacket that must have cost a gazillion dollars to look like he was just a simple country lad under it all. Costumes, costumes, and all of it fake.
October 28, 2025 at 5:07 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
October 25 #WIPsnips – “hat”

Back when they were sisters-in-law, married to Jamie and Sam Webster respectively, Caroline and Lainey weren’t natural allies but they sure are now. Funny how something like a terrible mother-in-law can bring people together. A snip from “This Ends Now.”
Caroline wasn’t someone I spilled my guts to back then, if you thought she might have been an ally. We were more friendly than friends at the time, and to be honest, she terrified me. Each blonde hair coiffed into painful submission, every white broadcloth shirt ironed to crisp precision and tucked into tailored tweed trousers. Her family Christmas card game was always on point: Caroline, Jamie and the three Webster brats posed in seasonal burgundy and forest green before a Douglas Fir straight out of a lifestyle magazine, a tartan bow on every third branch. I liked her anyway. Some faint whiff of “what the fuck am I doing here?” clung to her, almost as closely as her signature pearls and Fracas perfume. If she ever cracked, maybe I’d see whatever real essence lurked beneath her costume. I couldn’t miss that popcorn-worthy reveal. I considered telling her about my embryonic escape plan during one of Sam’s poker nights. Those evenings, you could usually find me downing bottles of Magic Hat #9 with Finn and Marty at the Owl’s Nest, while Jamie and Sam choked on stogies and sipped at Bushmills with their Uncle Del and a revolving selection of Lamoille County’s most revolting boors. But I’d already been volunteered by Mamie to help my sister-in-law with the theme for the town’s annual Halloween party. And saying no to Sam’s mother was as palatable as eating the contents of a vacuum cleaner bag.
October 26, 2025 at 4:46 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
October 24 #WIPsnips –“lottery”

No lottery but I’ve got raffle! (It was originally "tombola" but I remembered I live in America, duh.) Here, Lainey surveys her best friend’s renovation of a thoroughly nasty room, deeming it worthy of Middlemarch. Or maybe doomscrolling. A snip from “This Ends Now.”
Of all the rooms in the house, I was most impressed with this one’s transformation. When Nicky first toured the place on an Instagram Live, it had been a pint-sized parlor with crimson brocade walls, stuffed within an inch of bursting with moth-nibbled furniture. A massive crystal chandelier missing half of its prisms drooped ominously over a sofa tricked out in a shade charitably categorized as “carrot.” And the seller had been so kind as to abandon a portrait of a walrus-mustachioed relative posing triumphantly in Confederate grays. After a thorough sageing on yet another Live and a teardown to the studs, simple bookcases now lined three walls, with a Danish Modern sideboard hugging the fourth. Across a rosewood coffee table, two mismatched loveseats faced each other, and a tan leather easy chair tilted back in its teak frame to one side. Everything was clean and fresh, the absolute opposite of the atrocity exhibition that had once rotted here. I claimed one of the loveseats while Nicky made a beeline for the wine. “Don’t you love this darling room?” she asked. “If I had this room, I’d lie in here every day and read Middlemarch, like I’ve been planning to do for the past thirty years.” “Such ambition,” she said, but she paused mid-step. “They’re here.” A ferocious flutter spun my belly like a raffle drum. What was the point of this?
October 25, 2025 at 2:35 PM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
Jenny thinks Tennyson's "The Princess" is a crock: women can have opinions and an education as long as they remember their real job is to take care of a MAN, right? Well, she says/writes that and then falls into the trap anyway. Le sigh. 🙄

Sexy Tenny looked like this apparently:
A young Alfred, Lord Tennyson in his Sexy Tenny guise: flowing brown locks, no beard (NO BEARD), very pouty, gazing down his patrician nose at all us plebs.
October 25, 2025 at 1:27 AM
thecrumpet.bsky.social
October 24 #WIPsnips – “total”

Not every monster is hideous; not every villain has a mustache to twirl. Some of them are handsome and brilliant and vulnerable and absolute scads of fun—until they’re not. That's the trap in this snip from “This Ends Now.”
And oh, how glorious Gregory was inside. He loved shitty horror films, difficult French indie cinema, and dumping quarters into the Ms. Pac-Man machine at Cutler’s Records. He confessed he might be a fraud and a phony, that someday the Yale University police would haul him off for being a big ol’ fakey fake, despite his professors saying he had the makings of a superb academic. He considered both Ding Dongs and steak tartare delicacies. And he loved me. I liked him in ratty jeans, and in the somber suit he had to wear for a summer internship interview. I liked him most in nothing at all. He was long and lean, a rower’s body, although he didn’t row varsity anymore. “They made up some bullshit that I was bullying the coxswain to kick me off,” he told me when I asked why the coach booted him after freshman year. “Total crock. Anyway, those guys are all jealous meatheads. Half of them are only here because they know the handle end of an oar from the blade.” Don’t think for a second he chucked all his ambition into the water when he got banned from the boathouse. Nah. Gregory’s competitive streak was ten miles long and as vicious as a coked-up alligator. He sucked up to professors, wheedled extra Dean’s excuses, and checked out and renewed books he didn’t need just so rivals couldn’t use them. His favorite game was Monopoly. ‘Nuff said.
October 24, 2025 at 4:08 PM