Sailor Boy has finished the bar exam and is on vacation for the next month. Me? I am not on vacation. I have a deadline.

This should be interesting. I’m going to be like that kid stuck inside on Saturday afternoon watching his friends play in the yard.

I have been thinking a lot of late about the role of feminism in my books. I am a feminist. I am married to a feminist. I was raised by a pair of feminists and so was he. Thus, there is always a moment of “does not compute” when I am confronted with highly anti-feminist material. For a long time, misogyny and institutionalized inequality between men and women seemed like something that didn’t happen here, that didn’t happen now. Indeed, surrounded as I was by families and teachers who strongly believed in equality, it was a long time before I recognized instances of the opposite, before they began to affect me in any meaningful way. Much like Amy, I was almost at the end of my college career when the ivory tower crumbled, and I saw that in the real world, there was still a lot of work to be done.

University presidents who claimed that men were better thinkers. Potential employers who would dismiss me, Yale diploma notwithstanding, because I was a female. People — men and women — who demeaned anything associated with femaleness: their books, their music, their movies, their colors. (Seriously: why the hatred of pink?) Whole fields of study that, if women began to make headway in it, were dismissed as not as important as other fields of study dominated by men.

Why was one of my favorite classes at Yale, Women and the Rise of the Novel, attended by only three women? Was it because the word “women” appeared in the title? We thought so, and even had a discussion about it with the professor. The following year, she changed the title (I think to “Sex and the Rise of the Novel” or “Sexual Politics and the Rise of the Novel”), and turned away (male and female) students at the door. Why does that happen? Why?

I did not set out to write books in which women’s issues formed a primary piece of the plot. In fact, the original “what if” concept for Secret Society Girl wasn’t even about this “first woman tapped into a secret society” thing. It was about someone who wasn’t supposed to be tapped ending up in a society. But in trying to take that germ of a concept and turn it into a workable story, feminist issues came out, and they continue to come out, more and more.

This aspect of my work has been both praised and criticized. The criticism I understand — it mostly comes from people who, like me, have been raised in environments that value equality, and that don’t necessarily believe the things that are happening in my book. I get that. After all, Skull & Bones, a real secret society at Yale whose growing pains were a huge inspiration to my story, went co-ed almost two decades ago. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. The praise I receive proves that to me. Women may be allowed, but that doesn’t mean they are accepted. I get letters all the time from female students and professionals who say they recognized issues they are dealing with in their schools, jobs, and lives. That they know what Amy and her friends are going through.

As I moved through the post-college world, it became more evident. Women I knew were told they were not committed to their husband unless they took said husband’s name. I was accused of that myself. People assumed I was the one fighting to keep my name — it was actually Sailor Boy’s idea. Was I less of a feminist because I was willing to take his name? No. Am I so glad he talked me out of it? Hell yeah.

Women I knew were told that if they intended to get married and have children, it would severely curtail their opportunity for advancement in their chosen field. (Contrast this with the experience of men I knew, whose engagment, marriage, or family were actually viewed as a positive for employment, because it meant they’d be steady and committed to their job, expected as they were to “provide” for their family.) I met wonderful, brilliant, powerful women who coudln’t get a date because their position and strength intimidated the hell out of many men. I was told not to call myself a feminist, and definitely not to call my husband or father one. That the word is too “female” and denotes misandry. That I should say something about “equality” instead, if I even bothered with “all that stuff.”

Whatever. The opposite of feminism is misogyny, sexism, and female subjugation. Not getting behind that.

So as women’s issues confronted me every day, they crept into my writing. I was moved by stories about the choices women make, how they live and move and work, and love in a society that has made so many strides toward equality that they may not always notice things slipping by them.

And it’s not always the big things, the “and now  they let women into the society” things. Sometimes it’s the girl who will do anything, absolutely ANYTHING, to make the boy love her. To keep the boy’s interest. I’ve written books about that. Sometimes, it’s the girl who is willing to act a little bit stupid or weak in order to not intimidate the boy. Or the girl who wonders if the reason the boy likes her is because he thinks she’s stupid or weak. A boy who thinks that is not going to encourage her to become better than she is. A boy who thinks that is not a fair partner. He’s the boy who pats you on the head and says, “how cute! You’re scribbling!” He’s the boy who decides that having a “children’s book author” for a wife would be gold during his political campaign — but not a romance author. It’s got to be something cute, not subversive or dangerous. Not because he thinks you’d be an amazing children’s book author. But because he thinks it would be “safe” for him. I’ve written books about that. Heck, I’ve lived it.

And I know other people are living it every day. And I see stuff out there that says, “This is okay. Love conquers all. This is the way it’s supposed to be.”

No. I refuse to believe that. I refuse to write it. Happily ever after is not about “getting the guy.” It’s about being a complete person. If Amy, or Jenny, or anyone else ends up with their dream boyfriend, but in the process, loses themselves — what they want, who they are, what they know is true — then it’s not happy to me.

I love Love. I love relationships. I’m happily married. I love to write stories where the girl “gets the guy” at the end. But not at the expense of her happiness (or his). Sometimes, the happy ending is the one where they leave each other. Sometimes, the happy ending is the one where she dumps his ass on the pavement and walks off into her bright and glorious future.

I argue with a romance writing friend who refuses to watch Casablanca (one of my favorite films) because it “doesn’t have a happy ending.” Really? The freedom fighter and his wife escape the Nazis, the broken man becomes whole and joins forces with the reformed rake to similarly fight for freedom and goodness and etc.? Sounds pretty darn happy to me. (I always find it an interesting statement that Nora Ephron makes in When Harry Met Sally, how when graduating from college, Sally is all about Ilsa leaving, then, years later, after her first major heartbreak, she thinks Ilsa should have stayed. It’s supposed to be how our priorities change over the years. However, when I was graduating from college, I thought that Ilsa should have stayed and now, when I’m the age where Sally changed her mind, I’m totally on the “Leave! Fight for justice with your husband!” side.)

Many years ago, I was enamored with the computer game Syberia. Spoiler warning: at the end of the game, the main character, who has been dealing with increasingly annoying phone calls from her needy, controlling fiance, chucks him and runs off to look for Mammoths with the eccentric toymaker. As I described this to friends, all starry-eyed, as a wonderful story with a wonderful conclusion, every single one of them assumed that the main character was in a romantic relationship with the eccentric toymaker. But a satisfactory ending does not necessarily require a romantic one. If that’s possible, great. I love me some love.

SPOILER WARNING FOR RITES OF SPRING (BREAK) (white text, mouse over to read):

The ending of ROSB is not happy because Amy gets together with Poe. It’s happy because she gets to a point where she saves herself, and where the support she receives from her fellow knights is complete, and where the questions Amy has about herself: her worth, what she wants in a relationship, what she needs and is willing to fight for, are resolved. Were she to go and make all those declarations to Poe, and were he to say, “Tough patootie; I’m not interested,” (assuming that Poe would ever use a word like “patootie”), it would still be, as far as I’m concerned, a happy ending. Those things, those revelations, those abilities — they do not leave Amy just because she doesn’t end up coupled.

Of course, it’s not a completely happy ending. If it were, there would be no reason for book four. But still.

SPOILER ENDED

Vicki Hinze has an excellent essay about the idea of “author theme” — a motif or message that appears over and over in an author’s work, though they may not even realize it. I do not have a huge body of work. I have one series, and another book in the hopper. They each have very strong feminist themes. I don’t know what the future holds for my work, but I am pretty sure that strong women will always play a role in my stories. Why?

Yeah. What he said.

As I was saying in yesterday’s post, I’m a huge fan of chapter titles, and have put them in all my contracted books. My favorite chapter title from my published work is the last one in Secret Society Girl (”Commencement Issues”) though I’m also quite fond of the chapter four title in Rites of Spring (Break) (”Sin and Cosin”).

There are also chapter titles in Rampant, though they are very different in style, tone, and message. They hearken back to old-fashioned novels where the chapter opens with a description of the events therein. One early reader thought the inclusion of titles made the novel too much like the SSG books, but I think she only noted a similarity because chapter titles are, in general, the exception to the rule in commercial fiction. With that argument, if I’d just used numbers, wouldn’t that make it just like… oh, every book?

Having said that, however, I wouldn’t include them on principle — just if I think they add something to the story.

I’ve been told readers are generally uninterested in chapter titles, and that one shouldn’t include important information in them, lest the reader skip it and become lost. But I’ve also been told that about the following: parenthetical statements, footnotes, sex scenes, dialogue tags, narrative, and long paragaphs.

It leaves one wondering what part of a book one can put important information in. Honestly? I think modern readers are probably more likely to skip chapter headings because they are used to them being nothing more than numbers. If more people wrote chapter headings, I think more people would read them.

Never say never, but in general, I think of my chapter titles as “accessories” — they add some flare to my story, but it’s a perfectly acceptable whole without it. I’m not leaving anything bare.

This is not the case, however, with the confessions. An interesting fact: In my drafts, the confessions appear after the chapter title, and are a more integrated part of the text. However, the interior design of my printed books set the confessions aside on a separate page, before the start of each chapter. Now, I love this design and have since I first saw it. However, it made a separation between the confession and the start of the chapter. Sometimes, the start of the chapter is a direct follow up to the confession, such as in chapter four of Secret Society Girl:

I hereby confess: I hate Clarissa Cuthbert.

And let me tell you why.

In this situation, the first line of the chapter makes little sense unless you’ve read the confession. However, if you are reading straight through, in between that confession and the first line of the chapter is the chapter title: 4. SEMPER PARATUS.

This was actually something we discussed during the design phase of the book, and it was decided that the kickass interior design outweighed any possible negative ramifications of separating the confession from the chapter text. I am inclined to believe also that the separation actually makes it more likely that the reader will read the confession, even if they skip the chapter title, though I have only anecdotal evidence for that.

I do want to give props to the gorgeous interior designs of my books. Carol Russo, the designer, is absolutely extraordinary. The gates, the roses, the palm fronds, the fonts, and the amazing attention to detail — I throw a lot at my publisher, with the lists and the tables and the letters and print outs and once, the school stadium’s scoreboard — and my editor and designer always rise to the occasion with great aplomb and beauty. I’m very excited to see what they have in store for the fourth book — especially given the flow chart and the pie graph.

Kidding!

It’s choose your own adventure.

Remember last week when I said I had four fabulous secret bits of news? Well, I can tell you one of them now:

I just signed a contract with BenBella Books to write for another of their anthologies! Yay! This one is about Scott Westerfeld’s amazing UGLIES series. It’s no secret on this blog how much I love those books, so I’m so keen on writing this essay.

I actually discussed the essay topic with Scott, and he finds it pretty amusing, so here goes nothing! (See, I never spoke to Judy Blume, Philip Pullman, or the ghost of C.S. Lewis about those essays, so I have no idea what to think.) Very nervous-making that the author is actually a) around and b) able to give feedback on the antho.

Speaking of Westerfeld, he had a great blog up the other day about the importance of a good first line. Must be something in the air, as agent Nephele Tempest is doing a whole series on the Knight Agency blog on the same topic. Says Tempest:

What are your favorite books, and how do they start? Try reading the first sentences of some of your most frequent re-reads, and determine how that first sentence relates to the whole. What do you like about the book, and do you feel the same way about that opening line? How do you think the writer came up with that particular line? Why did they make the choices that they did?

According to Westerfeld, he’s planning a post to explain why he decided to start his futuristic dystopian hoverboard chase-filled adventure novel with a rumination on the color of cat vomit.

I feel both lucky and unlucky, because with all the SSG novels, I get several chances to make a “first line” impression. I also have the challenge of hooking you several times over. This is because sometimes readers (or excerpts) start with the first confession, sometimes with the first line of the prologue, and sometimes with the first line of the first chapter.

Thus, in SECRET SOCIETY GIRL I have:

• I hereby confess: I am a member of one of the most infamous secret societies in the world.
• You’ve heard the legends, I’m sure.
• It all began on a day in late April of my junior year.

In UNDER THE ROSE, I have:

• I hereby confess: I didn’t know what it meant to be a Digger.
• When you picture the secret society of Rose & Grave, I know what you see.
• It was shopping period at Eli University, and lest you think this is one of those books about fashion, let me enlighten you.

And in RITES OF SPRING (BREAK), I have:

• I hereby confess: Even the secret and the powerful need vacations.
• Not all tropical islands keep their treasured buried, but for those that do, no map will help.
• Some people pledge to lose weight for their new year’s resolution.

With the exception of that last one, I think they all have heavy thematic elements. The first sentence of the first chapter of Rites of Spring (Break), in contrast, sets up a long joke. If you consider that each of the first chapters have confessions as well, there are even more “first” lines. I sometimes wonder if most readers bother reading the confessions (or the chapter titles, for that matter). Sometimes, they are the punch line of the joke, at other times, spoilers for the chapter. I like giving chapters titles, rather than just numbers, and have done it in every one of my contracted books.

More on that tomorrow. Meanwhile, how do you feel about first lines? What is your favorite first line in all of literature? If you’re a writer,w hat’s your favorite first line that you’ve written?

I am huge fan of the Anne of Green Gables books, and reread the series every year growing up. My favorite of the novels, Anne of the Island, is about Anne in college.

Yes, it’s more than a little inspirational for my own work.

This year is the hundredth anniversary of the Anne books, and celebrations are happening everywhere. There are “Anne” musicals and “Anne” parties, and “Anne articles every time you turn around. There are discussions about why Anne Shirley is not held up like Huck Finn (even though Mark Twain was also a fan of the Canadian proto-feminist) and NPR shows that pick Anne of Green Gables as their book of the month. There’s even an authorized Anne prequel coming out.

I am a fan of all of this. What I am not a fan of is the recent Newsweek article claiming that she’s the last interesting female character in children’s literature.

It’s rare to find a best seller with a strong heroine anymore, in large part because, although girls will read books about boys, boys won’t go near a girl’s book, no matter how cool she is. Even in Stephenie Meyer’s “Twilight” series, the strong, grounded Bella is willing to chuck it all for the love of her vampire boyfriend. “The literary smart girl is still showing up in literature, but she’s often the sidekick,” says Trinna Frever, an “Anne of Green Gables” scholar. “It is a reflection of a culture that’s placing less value on intelligence, and also treating intelligence as a stigmatized quality.”

Wow, really? I wonder how many YA novels the author or Frever have read? You know, other than Twilight. Have they gone near bestselling trilogies like Scott Westerfeld’s UGLIES books, which are not only beloved by both boys and girls, but also features a heroine so strong she single-handedly brings down her dystopian government? Or what about Libba Bray’s Gemma Doyle trilogy, in which Gemma fights a patriarchal conspiracy while railing against the restrictions of Victorian England? How about the NYT bestselling I’d Tell You I Love You But Then I’d Have To Kill You and it’s similarly long-titled sequel, a series by Ally Carter about a school for genius girls training to be spies? That’s right, a whole SCHOOL of genius girls.

New York Times bestsellers all.

How about the novels of Maureen Johnson, Meg Cabot, E Lockhart, Jenny O’Connell? The list goes on and on.

I’ve written three books about a smart twenty-something girl fighting the patriarchy at an Ivy League college and next summer, I’ve got a book coming out about a smart teenage girl hunting unicorns. I have gleefully managed to avoid most YA novels that feature “weak” women, and think that strong female role models are out there in spades for anyone who cares to look.

Speaking of strong women, I really enjoyed this Salon article/love letter to the character of Dana Scully.

In this summer of Dark Knights and Hellboys and Iron Men, it’s refreshing to be reminded — as we will be this weekend, with the opening of “The-X-Files: I Want to Believe” — that not so long ago, there was a science fiction series with a woman at its core, a heroine whose major goals were more about disproving the existence of extraterrestrial life than marrying Big, a chick who spent more time chasing fluke worms down toilets than trying on shoes.

Like the writer of this article, I was similarly enthralled with The X-Files in its heyday (and have been diligently avoiding it ever since so as not to taint my memory). The skeptical Doctor Scully and her level-headed approach to life is very similar to my practical, science-minded Astrid.

____________________________

In other news, the winner of the RUMORS contest is Amy W. My mouth dropped open when I read that rumor.

You know that saying, “Life is what happens while you’re making other arrangements?”

It was definitely in full force yesterday. I thought I was going to have a nice, relaxing lunch with my parents, then send them on their way. Instead, their car broke down on the Beltway, stranding them, my brother, and an eight month old overgrown shaggy dog of a puppy (yeah, try getting him in teh back of your miniature car!) for the majority of the day. Since my apartment doesn’t allow dogs, we’re in the midst of packing, AND Sailor Boy is in the throes of final-studying-before-bar, it meant I entertained my family (and the puppy) for all afternoon in a local park.

Then came home to discover we may have a few issues with the secret stuff going on. Big issues. MAJOR ones.

In between, I worked. A lot. And am still working now and will likely be working again at 6 a.m. this morning.

My other brother and his wife are also in town, so at least I get to take a break from all this work later today and go to lunch with my sister in law.

Right, and get my oil changed. And write 10 pages.

Is Jiffy Lube really “jiffy?” I need to know.

In other news, the rumors contest is still going strong. Check it out below.

Didja hear the one about agent Kristin Nelson turning down Twilight?

Rumors can be a funny thing. They can also be incredibly damaging. When I was in high school, a rumor got started that I had slept with some guy I’d been dating for about a week and a half over the summer. (Not true.) Oddly enough, rather than hurting my reputation, it gave me some bizarro cool cred, and all of a sudden, friends of mine — good friends — began to admit to me that though they had always maintained they hadn’t been having sex with their long term boyfriends, they actually had been, and it was now okay to admit it to me because, well, they now knew I had been having sex, too.

I don’t know why they thought they couldn’t tell me before, but it was pretty disappointing for all of us as the truths came out. I later discovered that the whole rumor had been started because, at a basketball game, some girl had spilled her giant yellow-in-foil-wrappers cough drops out of her purse, and me and another girlfriend started giggling because we thought they were condoms. And clearly, because I knew what condoms looked like…

Yeah, I know. Bizarre. It’s weird how rumors get started. I’m sure there are much stranger rumors about me that I’ve never heard, but that one takes the cake for rumors that have gotten back to me — and it’s about twelve years old.

In the writing world, rumors fly fast and furious. An offhand comment an agent makes at a conference panel gets handed down as if it’s the Word On High — no vampires! — etc. Lots of good advice goes bad. People fall for stupid lines like, “the kind of agent you can get before you’re published isn’t the kind of agent you want” and end up getting screwed on a contract or worse, sign with some scam agent who steals their money. I’ve heard some pretty crazy rumors since being in this industry, most of which can be resolved with even a cursory look into the subject of the rumor. Can’t get an agent without having a publisher? I did. So did almost every other writer I know. Can’t sell directly to New York (this is a new one I’ve seen cropping up a lot)? Again — I did, and so have most of my writer friends.

I’ve even heard strange rumors about me. A few months back, someone (anonymous, of course), told me they’d heard that “even though I’d sold my first contract for good money on proposal, I hated doing it and was never going to sell on proposal again because the money wasn’t worth it.” Huh? This was an especially weird rumor because, well, since selling my first contract, I’d gone ahead and sold two more contracts, both on proposal. So far, my entire career as a writer is based upon my selling novels on proposal. And it’s great! Might I write a whole novel before trying to sell it? Sure. Might I not? Also, sure. Never say never. But this one had me baffled. I have no idea how this person could have gotten such a strange idea.

So, what’s the strangest rumor you’ve ever heard about yourself? Leave a comment here and I’ll enter you in a drawing to win a copy of my latest book!

Morning, all!

Just back from an early jaunt to Baltimore — a dry run for SB’s bar exam next week. Not so bad — pray for the same traffic conditions to continue.

We spent the drive talking about all our upcoming plans for August. With so much on our plate, it’s tough to decide which is the most exciting (or the most stressful). I will hopefully be able to talk more about that next week, but I don’t want to jinx it yet.

I’ve seen a few more outtakes from the Rampant photo shoot which have me super excited. I really feel like the photographer and model captured the essence of Astrid. There’s one shot in particular where she looks so fierce and haunted and driven and smart all at once. I can’t stop staring at it! Especially while I’m doing copyedits. I also find I’m listening a lot to my Rampant Playlist, especially “Fix You” as performed by the Cello group, Low Strung. It’s incredible. I was never a fan of Coldplay, and I still don’t love their version, but I can’t get enough of this cover — it echoes so perfectly the emotions in the book: love and longing, duty and determination, fear and loss and triumph. I also just love cello music in general.

If you’d like to listen to the song click here — they’ve got it on their MySpace playlist. (You can buy it on iTunes, too.)

In Secret Society Girl news, we finally settled on a title for the fourth book, so I’ll be announcing that soon.

Busy busy…

With the RWA conference coming up next week, the blogs are abuzz with people talking about conference preparation, and, moreover, pitch session preparation. JenWriter recently attended one of those crazy speed-dating pitch sessions (and got 7 requests and a referral — Go, Jen!) and has some excellent tips.

I will not be attending RWA this year. Rather, I shall be doing all sort of really exciting other stuff I’ll talk about soon.

On the subject of pitching — eh. I put a lot of emphasis on those pitch sessions back when I was trying to find an agent or editor on the conference circuit. I remember being so nervous and quaking at my first that the editor in question (Berkley’s Cindy Hwang), reached over to pat my hand in comfort. (She requested the partial, form reject 9 months later.) My next pitch session featured an editor (Abby Zidle, then at HQN), who said up front she was requesting from everyone, then spent the rest of the session doing a Q&A about the then-nascent HQN line. Her rejection, filled with comments detailing exactly what she didn’t like about it (characters, premise, plot), came a few months later (she also got it as a contest entry around the same time).

My third pitch session, with an agent, was a scary experience. The agent did not have a lot of faith in the pitch experience, she said up front, because often something would sound great when the writer explained it, but the writing itself wouldn’t be there. Then, the first pitch given by someone in the group was for a genre that the agent did not represent, and she made no bones about telling the writer that. The writer was clearly crushed and spent the remained of the session white-faced and staring at her shoes. It put a damper on the proceedings, let me tell you. I did get a partial request, which later turned into a full request. Unfortunately, things started getting confusing after that. I got a form rejection in my SASE, so I wrote it off, only to receive a phone call a few months later from the agent saying she was interested, had sent it out for a second read, and would call me back in a week. Two months later, after I’d written her off a second time, signed with someone else for a different book, and sold it, she did call back to talk about the book. I think we crossed wires somewhere.

My fourth pitch session was with another agent at a small regional conference. Another group session (I’ve only had one indie pitch). She was really good at putting everyone at ease, requested my book, then (and still incomplete). I got all tied up in running contests and moving to DC. A few months later, I wrote her and asked if I could send Secret Society Girl instead. She said yes, read it, liked it, and made an offer.

A few years back, I wrote an article about pitch sessions that got reprinted in a dozen RWA chapter newsletters. I also ran a week long workshop on it two years ago before Nationals at Romance Divas (at which I met one of my critique partners). So it’s weird now to say that I’m ambivalent about them.

But the truth is, I’m simply not a fan of the formal pitch session. Many editors and agents will not say no to your face, and I’ve heard from many more that often, by the end of the day, their brain is mush from hearing so much rapid fire story concept. I much prefer the more casual drive by or elevator pitch. You’re in a conversation with an agent or editor, they ask you what you write, and you whip out your pitch. It’s how Secret Society Girl was first pitched to editors and agents (my critique partner at dinner at a local conference). I’ve pitched other people’s books that way, too. Of course, it requires being in a conversation with an editor or agent, which at a large national conference can sometimes be a tough situation to swing, especially as an unpublished author. I feel you. Remember the shaking and the trembling?

Editors and agents are normal people, not godlike creatures. If you see one in a large group at the bar (not in a one on one-or-two meeting) feel free to go up and join in the conversation. Many times, editors and agents attend panels and sit next to you. Feel free to strike up a conversation with them. They know why you are there, and most of them will ASK YOU WHAT YOU WRITE. Attend the cocktail party functions like Death By Chocolate and the Chick Lit Party, which are filled with industry pros in casual, mingling mode. Be ready with an elevator pitch.

Formal pitch session or no, the skill required to pitch a manuscript are valuable and will serve you well, which is why I taught the classes and wrote the articles even after I was disenchanted with the formal pitch machine. Even after you sell, you have to pitch. Every single person who hears you have a book coming out will ask you what it’s about. “It’s a series about a young woman at an Ivy League school who is one of the first female members of a notorious secret society kind of like Skull & Bones.” “It’s a young adult fantasy about killer unicorns and the virgin descendants of Alexander the Great who hunt them.”

Also, the skills you learn in a verbal pitch of any kind are the same kind you need when crafting a query letter: intriguing, short descriptions of your novels designed to make the audience want more. And query letters are how most people get agents anyway.

Disclaimer: I went to college with the author of this article.

We knew of one another, though we were never friends, possibly because we sang for competing a capella groups. I know, “competing a capella groups.” However, the system at Yale really lent itself to that atmosphere, with singing groups working as hard as political candidates to woo the small pool of talented singers to their side during the crazed Rush period. Rastogi nails the attitude in the article. Frats weren’t big at my school, but we made up for it with the fervor of singing group Rush. They had me convinced, a month into school, that I was socially doomed unless I was tapped.

For the next two years, every weekend, every vacation, and most evenings were utterly defined by the activity. I missed a lot of campus events, and I was unable to participate in many other activities because of the sheer amount of time I’d committed to singing doo-doo-doos (at least 6 hours a week of practice, with usually 10-15 more spent with activities, gigs, or special rehearsals). Eventually, it got to be too much, and I quit. It was only after that I discovered all that my university really had to offer. I became a costume designer, got part time jobs, acted in a children’s theater show, took up intramural sports, got involved in my residential college, produced plays, wrote for a publication, took on a second major, threw weekly parties with my suitemate, and actually enjoyed a spring break.

My favorite line in the article deals with the manipulation and complexity involved in Rush campaigns:

Of course, that’s precisely what so many people find off-putting about the whole thing—the insularity, the cultishness. There are many similarities between cult members and a cappella singers: Matching outfits. Frozen smiles. Intense recruitment tactics. Obscure traditions. (”No, no, no—for 15 years we have been stepping on the one and snapping on the two!”) But what is cult if not another word for community? I arrived at Yale fresh from the suburbs, terrified of all the chic city kids I imagined would be roaming about, ready to mock me because I didn’t smoke pot or know all the bylines in The New Yorker. A cappella gave me something to belong to. Rushing singing groups—a complicated, monthslong process involving hundreds of hopeful freshmen—meant that, suddenly, dozens of upperclassmen were going out of their way to say hello to me on campus. Later, when I spearheaded rush efforts myself, I realized that these seemingly casual encounters were as carefully planned and executed as a military bombing campaign.

From the perspective of the person on the inside, it’s really not so different from secret societies. Those hundreds of hopeful freshmen who are actively rushing are traded out for a handful of hopeful juniors who may suspect, but don’t always know, what is happening to them. But to the knight (or the soprano), it’s a hard-core, all-consuming quest, an exhausting operation which to me, felt a bit like reverse hazing. I have been reminded of the madness and the drama and the sheer physical and emotional drain of this period while writing the fourth secret society book.

In the opening scene of Under the Rose, Amy delivers a critique of the Rush period, and compares it to joining Rose & Grave. I think there is a difference between being forced to make this commitment your first few weeks of college, as you do with singing groups at Yale, or fraternities and sororities at many universities, and choosing, at the end of your junior year, when you are aware of the range of campus activities and opportunities, to make a huge time commitment to a society for one year.

But perhaps not as big of a difference as she thinks in UTR.