If the sky falls, we shall catch larks
LARK, n. I went chasing after this word because I was trying to decide if one of my fictional characters could say they were doing something as “a lark.” And then I thought, wait, how old is that expression? Why is doing something purely for amusement, or on a whim, connected to these particular songbirds? What exactly is a lark?
The biological answer is “a member of the family Alaudidae,” which is a family of birds that you can find all over the world, though most of them live in Africa and Europe. Usually when people say “lark,” they mean the Eurasian skylark, Alauda arvensis, a brownish-grey bird known for its song and also for being the subject of a menacing traditional French children’s song (“Alouette”).
The Eurasian skylark often sings its famous song while soaring high up in the air and diving. This joyful display gives us the expression “(as) happy as a lark,” and that gives us “lark” as a verb, meaning to frolic, to play tricks, and also, apparently, to ride (“in a frolicsome manner,” the OED clarifies). That gives us the noun “lark” meaning a “frolicsome adventure,” dating from at least the early 1800s.
The dates would suit my draft, but alas, in between reading about Alaudidae and trying to track down the origin of the sound “lark” (Germanic, but ultimately obscure), I discarded half the scene and this whole question became irrelevant. So my little frolic through the OED was, in fact, a lark.
Speaking of amusements, here are my recent small-r romance reads:
Valerin the Fair and Martis the Brazen (both sapphic fantasy novellas) by Rien Gray. These novellas are inspired by Arthurian legend, but all the knights of the roundtable are lesbians—or under the sapphic umbrella, since nonbinary characters are plentiful here. As they go about their knightly business, they get their virtue imperiled by witches and demigods, and it is hot as hell. When I tell you these are magical, please understand that I am talking not only about the presence of enchantments and dragons, etc, but also the old, otherworldly feel of the prose. It stops to linger on the setting, to catalogue what is beautiful, in a way that really reminds of actual Arthurian tales: “a pleasant chorus of insects eager to sate their hunger: wandering bees encrusted with pollen’s golden armor; katydids hidden among the hardwood, green as the leaves; a careful march of iridescent beetles set along the trunk like jewels in a bracelet.” The knights wrestle with love and loyalty and honor, as good knights must, and there is tenderness for their complicated grief and difficult choices. Naturally I love that both of these novellas append a definition after the story—for “fair” and “brazen,” respectively—that highlights the word’s double meaning as a color and a character trait. Content guidance: violence, sex, death of a parent.
The Art of Losing (m/f, both cis and het, contemporary, novella) by Ruby Lang. What precise, beautiful prose this has. It’s a glimpse of a turning point in Gia Franchetti’s life: she’s grieving for her father, struggling to connect with her mother, and in search of—something. The story opens in Shanghai, where she’s interviewing for a job and trying to get to know her birth country after growing up with her adoptive family in Boston. She thinks she sees her father in a crowd and ends up following the sight, leading her to get lost and also to meet a rescuer. Cal Webb, a Black American professor of music, is visiting Shanghai but just happens to live in Boston, too, and he and Gia feel an instant connection that only deepens as they spend more time together. He’s so warm and instantly lovable and she’s prickly and eccentric, which I always love as a dynamic. But Gia’s leaving Boston for Shanghai in a matter of weeks. The conflict feels so rooted in real life—how can they make a long-distance relationship work? How can they both keep the people and the jobs and the places they love? The solution feels real, too. I loved that this compact novella still made time for the changing relationship between Gia and her mom and for Gia learning to cope with her grief. Content guidance from the author.
Funny Guy (m/f, both cis and het, contemporary) by Emma Barry. “Childhood friends to lovers” gets me every time, and this is such a perfect iteration. “You mean too much to me for me to ever risk telling you that I am in love with you, but also it hurts to be so close to you while you date and find happiness with other people and I know I never will” is just the crunchiest, most delicious internal conflict, and when it’s this well done, I can’t help but devour it. Bree and Sam grew up poor and abused in small-town Ohio and they were each other’s only solace. They got out and made it to New York City, where Bree is an urban planner and Sam is a successful comedian. She’s tightly controlled and he’s wildly emotional. When Sam’s pop-star ex writes a hit song about his flaws, he spins out in public and then hides from the attention by staying on Bree’s couch. They both care so deeply about each other. I love a difficult, sharp-tongued character with a secret soft heart. I especially love that he’s brilliant and chaotic and so caught up in his own problems that he could easily have overlooked the quiet, steady care and competence of the woman he thinks is his best friend, but he doesn’t. He sees her in the way she deserves to be seen. So satisfying. Content guidance from the author.
In books that are neither Romance nor romance, I read Samantha Irby’s latest essay collection Quietly Hostile. I had an Advanced Review Copy (given to me freely in exchange for an honest review, hello United States Federal Trade Commission rules of disclosure) but this review isn’t Advance; the book came out on May 16. I feel like Samantha Irby would understand how sometimes instead of reading—even reading really good books, one I know I will enjoy—I just need to lie listlessly on the couch and stare unseeing into the blue glow of my screen, knowing I’m so tired that I should be in bed, but unwilling and/or unable to make the smart choice. She would get it. This book hangs out in the gap between the life we wish were living (polished, organized, hydrated, instagrammable) and the one we’re actually living (not that), yearning for and laughing about the unattainable former while being hilariously, grossly real about the latter. One of the best essays is about going into anaphylactic shock in the middle of an unsuccessful attempt to remove gel nail polish at home, being rushed to the emergency room while worrying she will die with an unfinished, overdue book manuscript and an absurd cause of death (“acetone poisoning”), then being told by her attending physician that he is trying to clear her airway and could she please stop trying to make jokes. I also, of course, loved her lengthy, detailed analysis of her favorite porn video, titled Two Old Nuns Have Amzing (sic) Lesbian Sex. And she taught me the best possible response when someone rudely implies that whatever you just recommended to them is unworthy: “I like it!” No explanation, just “I like it!” I’ve already used it in real life. Interwoven with Irby’s chaotic, self-deprecating jokes are moments of raw honesty about her chronic illness, her grief, her complex relationships with her family, and her artistic worth, unvarnished and genuinely affecting. I’ve loved all her books and this one is no exception.
In personal news, Olivia Waite reviewed my most recent novel The Scandalous Letters of V and J in her latest romance column for The New York Times. (That should be a gift link, readable without a subscription.) I’m biased, but I think it’s a beautiful essay—Waite writes the most poetic and thoughtful romance criticism—and I’m honored to be mentioned in the company of such good books. Also, next time anybody asks me what I write, I’m gonna say “the thirstiest sex imaginable—according to The New York Times.”
That’s all for now. I’ll be back in your inbox mid-June!