Older women.

Hi y’all,

I am visiting Vienna! City of cities. Gem amongst dwellings. My bare feet are stuck under my friend’s table, and I lounge in her Italian-art-styled flat. There are so many lemon motifs around me, I swear I can taste them on my tongue, and the sweet scent of their blossoms in the air. I recommend daring the adventure to take the night train to Vienna, by the way. Interesting things are bound to happen.

Today, before I circle back to my travel reports, and the announced other bits and bobs of writing (see my last posts) I want to introduce you to an author very dear to my heart.

In October to November 2024—and I wish I had documented better how it came to pass, step-by-step—my life was altered for the second time that year, but this time, it was for the better. It had to do with a keen need for stories about people like me that, simultaneously, didn’t at all resemble my own life’s story at that point in time. I had moved into a new place and it was, probably not at all by coincidence, not far from the local library. My internet provider held out on me. Everything took forever, mistakes were made. It was doing my head in, inasmuch as I had the capacity to care. The library has WiFi, a great app, and its interior is bright, quiet and welcoming, as it should be. The staff is kind. I was in need of kindness, the quiet, and a bright space. And I needed my usual internet consumption to continue without fucking up my phone data plan.

I downloaded the library app. Explored the unfamiliar shelves. Checked out the YA section, even rented some DVDs in the beginning (hello, horrors of Westworld!), which felt comfortingly nostalgic. Claimed it in its entirety for myself, silently, possessively, and with a profound sense of relief. At last, I had found a warm place to just sit down and rest, and turn the pages of unfamiliar books. Just like when I had been a child. I had gone through months of not having enough appetite to eat, losing almost one and a half stones of weight, not sleeping at all, or not sleeping well, and having nigh constant psychosomatic chest pains. I did not want to be in my own life, which I could not accept for being what it had turned into. In fact, I did not want my life at all. In my mind, I had made a very bad decision in entrusting the wrong people with, well, me, and nothing I had worked for had any meaning now because I had ruined my own life by making this one, gargantuan, apocalyptic error of judgement. I had signed my fate. This decision cost me years of my life. And I blamed myself for something that I really could not have anticipated. I did not want my job, that I was lucky to have. I did not want to be in any place my body occupied. I did not want to think or feel anything any longer. I did not want to be me. I have since learned that one of the terms for what I experienced is passive suicidal ideation. All I wanted to do was curl up in one of the library’s reading chairs, read and lose myself in a story and never leave.

At the same time, my friend who lived in Poland thought I would benefit from an audiobook that guides one in how to attain placidity and resilience in the face of life’s changes. I took the freebie she sent to me via her app. I listened diligently to a warm male voice extolling the joy of surrendering. To life’s challenges, he meant. I did not want to surrender, in fact, I felt I had surrendered enough, I wanted my life to be better, dammit. And so I began to get distracted and scroll, and combine some certain search criteria of my library app with the beach-combing of audiobooks on the audiobook app. And lo, both unfolded before me like a whole strange new planet. I cannot tell you how, precisely, it happened. I do not remember how exactly I got to where I eventually got. It reminded me of the rare moments when you lock eyes across a crowded space with someone and that certain shock of pleasure just bolts through you. For reasons a bit lost to the mysterious fogs of memory, I became hooked on the synopsis of a romance novel. I think, in hindsight, that the novel in question was included in the audiobook app subscription. It was some banal thing that felt, and feels, like fated. Of course, I have since bought it—as I buy all titles I recommend here. And from it, the apps’ algorithms and my own twist to them made numerous hyphae for me…

The novel sounded…well. Not like my usual fare. Not like a fantasy or sci fi novel with a lot of action, demons, spaceships, swords, and of course some lesbian love story somewhere. No, it completely did away with the need of that sort of thing as the main part of the plot. It became quite obvious that the romance was the plot. Hang on, was such a thing okay, I mean, that sounded a lot like the horrible heterosexual stuff I haughtily scoffed about. I had read Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre once and once only, and you would not catch me in broad daylight or under the blankets with a torchlight with an Austen. Why would I waste time on straight people’s weird relationship problems, surely totally caused by the inherently flawed power dynamics of reproduction, care, heteronormativity, etcetera? Mr Rochester? Talk about gaslighting masculine toxicity.

But then, the issues I take with the straight world and what I used to associate with especially sabotaging male behaviour around fidelity, trust, truthfulness and other sensitive topics regarding taking relationship-ending courses of action are, of course, not at all limited to men. Nor straight constellations. I confess, my past self is hilariously guilty of having made the naive and flawed assumption, that solidarity amongst queer people should prevent us from doing a great many hurtful things. After all, are we not one people suffering under the same yoke? Should we not practise compassion and kindness, are we not here to do better than what we have already identified is a harmful, damaging system called patriarchy? I am sure women as a demographic have also oftentimes thought, that after the struggles we all went through and what with the ordeal of constantly being less-than before the law, before medicine, many (all) of us still go through knowingly or unknowingly, that we should not violate one another’s most tender feelings. Sister code and all that. Envision this timeless tale: man meets woman, woman discovers he actually has an antecedent fully fledged and confirmed relationship, and drops man posthaste, and as a bonus twist, bonds with Woman No. 1, who also moves on to greener pastures. Such a fine example of manhood as in this stencil of a narrative is generally referred to by fine Georgian and Victorian romance literature as a rake. The rise of the rake as an antagonist went alongside the dawning of new notions on societal roles, the popularity of such literature, certain liberties certain privileged people had and took, but also newly emerging confident middle-class, and so on. (I recommend watching the BBC documentary series A Very British Romance with Lucy Worsley, for a more detailed and highly entertaining exploration of the subject.) But just because the rake is an antagonist and frowned upon by the author, does not mean real life rakes were much shunned or in any way afflicted by the scorn of their peers. (Some of them were, after all, peers, if you pardon the pun.) Whom we laud or condemn is always a matter of perspective and self-interest. As we are all people on one same planet and surrounded by people who emerge from the same systems of thought, and as we share the neurotransmitters and hormones and weird brains bequeathed unto our species as a whole—why should queer people differ so much from anyone else? I have been exposed to a crass wake-up-call of an epiphany which demonstrated to me: honey, they don’t.

Samuel Richardson, Jane Austen, as well as the Brontës, obviously both affirmed and questioned the fairly new notions of love, sentimentality, sensibility, and romance. And thus it became established that for many of us, a rake is quite an undesirable partner when all is said and done. Because their behaviour is hurtful, selfish, and not up there with what makes a relationship safe, secure and therefore lastingly enjoyable. Our own dear Shane McCutcheon is, while quite lovable as a friend, that archetype. As is Rosalie in a certain German TV series of about that time. And many others before and hence.

(This is the part where a writer aims for a dramatic caesura, ushered in by, ‘However.’)

However.

How people define their relationships has always been a function of society, quite obviously even at Mr Richardson’s time. Do we prefer sense, or sensibility? Do we accept that some desired societal status might mean to be a beard for someone (which is a relevant constellation for queer people even to this day)? Do we tolerate or resign ourselves to cheating or otherwise abusive partners, if it means keeping a roof over our head, or loneliness at bay? Do we stay for the kids?

What is romantic fulfillment and happiness?

First of all, when that certain book met me, I needed to re-learn to accept that I am, to the bone, a firm believer in romance. This was like rediscovering a faith after a Job-like experience, or in other words, going through a deep crisis having one’s core values cast into doubt, just to emerge very much still believing despite having experienced all the evidence to the contrary there is in the book. (The literal book! Ha, I am on pun-fire today, I am so sorry, you guys.) This is quite disturbing, as I am a trained scientist, and as such, I follow the evidence. Usually. I believe what I observe, and even better, what can be measured objectively. Further, I am convinced that to hold on to a conviction when proven wrong is a sign of obstinacy at best, stupidity and a limited grasp of reality at worst.

Likewise, it is true we are all much more able to ignore evidence which does not fit into our current view of the world. And it is evident that many, many people do wish for a romantic, monogamous, happy, healthy relationship that lasts for the rest of their lives. It is furthermore evident that quite a few of them even live that. I may be struggling with the fact that I share this longing. But, crucially, does that necessarily mean I should wean myself off of it, when that causes me even more distress? Because that is what I am doing to myself, still. I do not quite give myself the permission to hope, because it feels too big and impossible. Maybe some of you can relate. When we look around ourselves, sometimes all that is there is a selection of people seemingly too alien in their habits, day-to-day lifestyles, quirks, and needs, to fit our own desires. A relationship needs to be a good fit to work. But the mere fact that I even dare to look again is something I cherish so much. If nothing else, for the simple reason, that it makes me feel slightly better to hope a little, gain some energy from it and then move on with my day, than facing an abyss of denying myself. It does not matter why me or anyone wants that, when all is said and done. Maybe it is all the result of history, convention and zeitgeist, and the brainchild of a bunch of authors from a wet and dank isle off the continental shelf of the European mainland, but so what? I have never seen the benefit of raking each and every point of view over the coals of postmodernist-questioning-everything. That may yield interesting lines of thought, warrens of obscure rabbit holes, but what it fails to provide again and again is a guide on how to move on from there. I have been distracted from exploring more fruitful—dare I say, wholesome—lines of questioning and thought many times (or simply from walking away). But trying to answer ‘why romance’ would be, to me, as pointless, useless, and logically flawed as asking myself what “causes” me to be a lesbian. I just am, folks. It is me. Somewhere in the lines of a very special book, I realised, that being a romantic is also, just like that, who I am.

Loneliness is one of the worst experiences of the human condition. And while we aim to soften its blow by learning to be joyous about the freedoms we may gain by being unbound, and through therapy, friendships and family try again and again to move our focus toward benefits, chances, other focal points a human life should contain and to which we should, rightly, attribute at least the same value as romance, the truth remains that through contemporary culture and maybe (in my case, at least) some very inherent traits some of us deeply long for the connection to The One. (Feel free to insert a ring joke here, that’s okay. Laughs are allowed.) To see, day by day, in social media, in adverts, and in our personal bubbles, that sort of thing thrive, and to observe it with both gladness for others and that cold, gnawing sensation of staring down into a black hole, the literal void, trying to adjust to the possibility that this is what life is for you—I am actually not sure I have the words for this experience. The knowledge that some of it is cultural, historically grown, does not in any way at all make it better, or different. I want a unicorn. To tell me unicorns are rare, possibly extinct, does not change the fact that I want it. This is not how longing works. And I finally came to understand that it does not make me feel better to try and strangle a part of myself that is such an affirmation of life.

So this is how everything began, really. This. Me. Writing to you. It all began in a fictional New York hotel room, the opening scene of Milena McKay’s The Headmistress.

Sam is a teacher approaching thirty on an elite, small and private school. She herself once attended that school, in the best tradition of private school-themed novels. She is closeted, apart from being very much seen for who she is by one of her wise-ass pupils, who teases her mercilessly about her lack of subterfuge (that flannel shirt! Those ratty Converse!) and one older colleague. She is teaching math, sporty, nerdy, adores literature and poetry, and loves her school, the only home she has ever known. Sam is an orphan and was able to attend Dragons (Three Dragons School for Girls) on a scholarship. Knowing she was lesbian early on and being a so-called ‘charity case’ have othered her and made her both an outsider and outside observer, but never made her question her loyalty to the institution that is her home. She is reeling, however, from a recent and quite atypical one-night-stand she had while away at a conference in New York. She has no way of knowing who that woman even was. So all she is left with are daydreams. Very, very vivid daydreams about heterochromatic eyes and red hair. But Dragons is in trouble, deep in the red, so she has bigger concerns. The school board has appointed someone to steer the school back onto its storied illustrious path of accolades and award-winning former glory. Someone from the outside. Someone who steps into an upset and alcohol-fuelled, highly unprofessional staff-meeting, a vision on high-heeled Louboutains, with pilot shades and a half-a-million dollar watch. And the very exact same eyes and mouth Sam has been pining for. So now, Sam finally learns the name the stunning forty something-year-old woman denied telling her during their life-changing night together. Madelene Nox, 46, divorced from her cheating, yet hankering husband Timothy (the rake!) and finally able to be the badass bisexual she is, has come to tear Sam’s home to pieces, either to formally sink it, or save it. Which it will be, seems anyone’s guess. Not one brick will remain in place, however, that much seems obvious for both the school, and for Sam and her blind loyalty to the institution and its leadership, to the old headmistress who was her mentor and her second quasi parent. But it’s not like the new headmistress has in any way forgotten Sam, either.

And once even Willoughby the school cat decides to give the ice queen Madelene Nox the benefit of the doubt, what is a nerdy, Trekkie Sam to do, when faced with her own version of Captain Janeway? Especially when both already know how extremely amazing they can be together? She definitely cannot fool her pupil Lily for a second, who depends upon Madelene’s decision on whether to discontinue her scholarship, nor Madelene’s ex(ex!)-husband, and what about Madelene’s secretary and Sam’s vitriolic former mentor? Because soon enough it becomes apparent that somebody has it out for either Sam, or Madelene, or both. Will Madelene save or sink the school? Will Sam find plausible cause to trust Madelene? And however will each of them manage to navigate the hostile board, the strange acts of sabotage on the school grounds, and keeping their hands off each other while they are officially on opposing sides regarding the future of Dragons?

***

It is not possible for me to overstate the effect this steamy, cute, but also diligently crisis-laden novel by the wonderful Milena McKay has had on my life. After all, through this novel and McKay’s exposition through Lily (the student’s) and Madelene’s and Sam’s learned words on the subject, I learned what lesfic even is, how it is structured and topically equipped. I do not have as many queer women in my day-to-day as I’d like, which, to be fair, would be at least 90 % of my social contacts, a feat that is simply not mathematically possible in my Here and Now. So I need to hear stories from people I do not know (I know! Sometimes it feels like I am back in the countryside where it all started, with only the internet as a portal to what I consider normal life). And sometimes those people are written into existence by other people. But since those writers do not operate in a vacuum, Madelene Nox gave me that most coveted content of Pandora’s Box, Hope. Hope, that even someone who is not 25 anymore may still encounter thrill, and even more importantly, affection, adoration, and the endgame sort of love.

PS.: I am beyond grateful for the recommendation and I will actually listen to that book on surrendering when I am ready.

PPS.: There is no comment section on this page, because I want to make people work for any hypothetical trolling. But I am on Bluesky now. Find me on @mia-is-a-writer.bksy.social.