{"product_id":"wayward-isbn-9780593312490","title":"Wayward","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR • \u003cb\u003eA “furious and addictive new novel” (\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e) about mothers and daughters, and one woman's midlife reckoning as she flees her suburban life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Exhilarating ... reads like a burning fever dream. A virtuosic, singular and very funny portrait of a woman seeking sanity and purpose in a world gone mad.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eSamantha Raymond's life has begun to come apart: her mother is ill, her teenage daughter is increasingly remote, and at fifty-two she finds herself staring into \"the Mids\"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003ethat hour of supreme wakefulness between three and four in the morning in which women of a certain age suddenly find themselves contemplating motherhood, mortality, and, in this case, the state of our unraveling nation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When she falls in love with a beautiful, decrepit house in a hardscrabble neighborhood in Syracuse, she buys it on a whim and flees her suburban life\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eand her family\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eas she grapples with how to be a wife, a mother, and a daughter, in a country that is coming apart at the seams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dana Spiotta's \u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e is a stunning novel about aging, about the female body, and about female complexity in contemporary America. Probing and provocative, brainy and sensual, it is a testament to our weird times, to reforms and resistance and utopian wishes, and to the beauty of ruins. \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e CRITICS' TOP BOOK OF THE YEAR \u003cb\u003e•\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: \u003ci\u003eNew York Times, Washington Post, Vogue, The Guardian,\u003c\/i\u003e and more • A Best Book of the Summer:\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eUSA Today, Town \u0026amp; Country, The Philadelphia Inquirer, BuzzFeed, Real Simple, The Millions,\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eand more\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A comic, vital novel.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew Yorker\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Furious and addictive . . . Sam [is] an ideal guide, rash, funny, searching, entirely unpredictable, appalled at her own entitlement and ineffectuality—drawn with a kind of skeptical fondness . . . So much contemporary fiction swims about in its own theories; what a pleasure to encounter not just ideas about the thing, but the thing itself—descriptions that irradiate the pleasure centers of the brain, a protagonist so densely, exuberantly imagined, she feels like a visitation.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Parul Sehgal, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New York Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dana Spiotta is one of the most alert, ambitious, nuanced, and, yes, smartest of our contemporary novelists . . . Spiotta’s novels, always rich with ideas and atmosphere, often focus on the arts . . . Here, architecture connects to Wayward’s larger meditations about impermanence and decay — human, structural and even national.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Maureen Corrigan\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e, Fresh Air\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thrilling . . . Spiotta’s novels are unfailingly dense with life—the textures, digressions, and details thereof—and Wayward is no exception. The novel is at once satirical and earnest: Sam asks what she can do to atone for her thoughtless privilege, what role she might play as an agent of change. There’s much comedy in the asking, but the novel makes clear that the answers aren’t straightforward. Spiotta offers grand themes and beautiful peripheral incidents . . . she writes with sly humor and utter seriousness; a rare articulation of midlife now. For this reader, there is uncommon pleasure in the paradoxes of this climacteric tale.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Claire Messud\u003ci\u003e,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eHarper’s Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Exhilarating. . . \u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e reads like a burning fever dream. A virtuosic, singular and very funny portrait of a woman seeking sanity and purpose in a world gone mad.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Joanna Rakoff, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A comic, vital new novel . . . if \u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e has competition in the category of best American novel devoted to the subject of perimenopause, I am not aware of it . . . [Spiotta] is satirizing her own demographic, and with verve. Her novel is laced with cranky comic passages on the nostalgic manias for crafting and mommy blogging, and on addictions to social media, personal fitness, and self-improvement—trappings of comfortable, contemporary womanhood . . . When a wife, not her husband, is the one to indulge a midlife crisis and abandon her family, her behavior is either derided as selfish or championed as subversive. A good novel shouldn’t ask us to choose between those readings, and Spiotta has written a very good novel.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Alexandra Schwartz, \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew Yorker\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Masterful . . . a mordant, coruscating indictment of these times, liberal politics, affluenza, self improvement and social identity . . . \u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e explores the ironies and frailties of modern life, the human tendency to constantly gaze inward to become better, to move further . . . [Spiotta] swings for the fences.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Karen Heller, The Washington Post\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With each novel, [Spiotta] tethers herself to a moment in time, devising original interviews and transcripts from the period with such verisimilitude that it can take a moment for the reader to realize these too are part of the author’s magic trick . . . Spiotta is unsurprisingly great on the brute facts of middle age . . . The beauty of \u003ci\u003eWayward \u003c\/i\u003eis how well it captures the lifetime it takes for mothers to really see their daughters and vice versa.\" \u003cb\u003e—Sloane Crosley, \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eNew York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beautiful . . . breathtaking . . . a strikingly intelligent book, sometimes funny, sometimes painful . . . A brilliant novel with love—never a simple subject — at its core.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Michael Schaub,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eMinneapolis Star Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Defiantly, poignantly a novel of middle age . . . One of the many strengths of \u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e is its unflinching portrayal of anger both personal and collective.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Michele Filgate, \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e is about rescuing your life from the mess you’ve made of it so far, while your body goes haywire … Simmering under Spiotta’s deceptively breezy, fluid description of everyday life in 2017 Syracuse are large and perplexing questions about the eternal interplay of idealism and pragmatism, of the longing for a better world and the reality of human frailty. . . Sam dissects many flavors of contemporary delusion and distraction with consummate precision.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Laura Miller, \u003ci\u003eSlate\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This is story about female desire and fulfillment, a woman realizing she’s fallen into roles she resents and giving in to the impulse to abandon them. Spiotta glides through her journey with sparkling prose, delving into the contradictions and complexities of being an aging woman—and raising a daughter who will one day do the same—in today’s America.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Arianna Rebolini, \u003ci\u003eBuzzFeed’s\u003c\/i\u003e “28 Summer Books To Get Excited About”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Spiotta writes beautifully about parenthood, aging, and other calamities that come with being alive in an unforgettable meditation on the indignities of life in the modern age.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Town \u0026amp; Country\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Wayward is\u003c\/i\u003e a strikingly human and affecting story… gloriously cool, deftly assembled, brimming with mood… a hymn to iconoclasm, a piercing novel about what we lose and gain by when we step out of life’s deepest worn grooves.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eVogue\u003c\/i\u003e's “Best Books to Read in 2021”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spiotta mines [her] material with laser precision and wit.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ePeople\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Spiotta helps us feel the weight that patriarchy places on younger and older women alike . . . By exploring Sam’s specific experience as a middle-aged liberal gentrifier, Spiotta does succeed in illuminating one corner of American life—no small feat for any novel.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Nation\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Riddled with insights into aging, womanhood, and discontent, \u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e is as elegant as it is raw, and almost as funny as it is sad.  Spiotta will kick your heart’s ass.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Patrick Rapa, \u003ci\u003ePhiladelphia Inquirer\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e takes on marriage and motherhood — and shatters our safe, tidy concepts of each. Razor-sharp . . . \u003ci\u003eWayward\u003c\/i\u003e stands tall in its representation of these harried times.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Alexis Burling, \u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“An engrossing, interior mother-daughter story that expands into a sharp social commentary.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e [starred review]\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“At once a love letter to the Salt City and a smart and introspective device for illuminating the present through the very recent past . . . Sam immerses herself in feminist resistance, [but] her malaise is as potent as her yearning for activism. While trying to salvage a relationship with her daughter, she desperately searches for meaning in a world headed toward uncertain ruin.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e[starred review]\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A wonderfully mischievous and witty story . . . A knockout.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003e[starred review]\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What a thrilling experience to take a wayward journey along with Dana Spiotta's heroine, in the social landscape of America when America is probing its future, in a woman's complex internal landscape as she forges forward. Wayward is a fiercely funny and deliciously subversive novel.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Yiyun Li\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An urgent, deeply moving, wholly original novel by one of the most wildly talented writers in America. This is Spiotta’s best book yet, rich with all the joyful immersion-in-culture that characterized her earlier work, and of which she is a master, but with, it seems to me, more heart, hope, and urgency. There’s not a smarter, more engaging, more celebratory writer working today than Dana Spiotta, and here she shows us to ourselves with stunning, sometimes lacerating, honesty, but also with a feeling of genuine hope for us, i.e., with kindness. I finished the book last night and woke this morning both fonder of, and more terrified for, America.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—George Saunders\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A dazzling lightning bolt of a novel which illuminates the sometimes exhilarating, sometimes heartbreaking moments of connection and disconnection in our lives. What begins as a vertiginous leap into hilarious rabbit holes ends as a brilliant meditation on mortality and time. How does she do it? Only Dana Spiotta knows. I’m just happy to see her work her magic.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eJenny Offill\u003c\/b\u003eDANA SPIOTTA is the author of \u003ci\u003eInnocents and Others\u003c\/i\u003e, which won the St. Francis College Literary Prize and was short-listed for \u003ci\u003eThe Los Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book Prize; \u003ci\u003eStone Arabia\u003c\/i\u003e, which was a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist; \u003ci\u003eEat the Document\u003c\/i\u003e, which was a National Book Award finalist; and \u003ci\u003eLightning Field\u003c\/i\u003e. Spiotta was a Guggenheim Fellow, a New York Foundation for the Arts Fellow, and she won the 2008-9 Rome Prize from the American Academy in Rome. In 2017, the American Academy of Arts and Letters awarded her the John Updike Prize in Literature. Spiotta lives in Syracuse and teaches in the Syracuse University MFA program.2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house sat high on a tiny lot on Highland Street, which ran atop a  hill  that  bordered  a  long  expanse  of  grass  and  trees.  It  looked like  a  small,  sloping  park,  but  it  was  actually  a  cemetery,  the  old graves scattered across the rise. Unless you were squeamish about graves—Sam wasn’t—the sloping green hill was quite pretty. Highland  itself  offered  a  wide  view  of  downtown.  You  could  see  the steeples  of  churches,  and  you  could  see  how  the  small  city  was  in a valley surrounded by hills. You could even see the kidney shape of  Onondaga  Lake,  although  it  was  often  partly  obscured  by  low-hanging clouds. If you turned your head to the left, or if you looked out the side windows of the house, you could see Syracuse University up on another hill. You would locate it by the quilted low white bubble of the Carrier Dome (named for the nearly absent Carrier corporation—all  that  remained  were  a  handful  of  jobs,  the  dome, and  Carrier  Circle,  a  treacherous  traffic  roundabout  that  Sam hated).  Soon  after  you  spotted  the  dome  you  would  notice  the various spired and turreted campus buildings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  decision  to  leave  her  husband—the  act  of  leaving,  really—began  the  moment  she  made  an  offer  on  the  house.  It  was  a  Sun-day;  Sam  woke  up  at  five  a.m.,  unable  to  continue  sleeping.  She attributed  this  unnecessarily  early  waking  to  the  approach  of menopause. Her period still came each month, but odd things had started  changing  in  her  body,  even  her  brain.  One  of  which  was suddenly becoming awake at five a.m. on a Sunday, her mind shak-ing off sleep with unnegotiable clarity, as if she had already drunk a  cup  of  coffee.  And  just  as  with  coffee,  she  felt  alert,  an  adrenal burst, but she could also feel the fatigue underneath it all, the wea-riness. That morning the wood floor was cold against her bare feet, but  she  couldn’t  find  her  slippers.  It  was  still  dark.  She  tried  not to wake her husband. She used her phone to illuminate the way to the  bathroom.  She  peed,  flushed,  washed.  She  brushed  her  teeth without  looking  in  the  mirror.  She  pushed  up  the  blinds  to  peek outside. The sky was gradually lightening with the dawn, and half a  foot  of  snow  had  fallen  overnight.  It  was  one  of  those  Syracuse March  snow  dumps.  Everyone  complained  because  it  “should  be spring,” but why say that when it never was spring in March in Syra-cuse. Besides, snow in March was often spectacular because of the spring light. The sunrise that was creeping up now cast a pink-and-gold glimmer, and a little crust of ice on top of the snow glittered from the sky and from the streetlamps. The trees, the roofs of the houses, even the salt-crusted cars looked beautiful. And like most spectacularly  beautiful  effects,  it  was  almost  too  much,  too  dra-matic, nearly lurid. Sam loved the drama of a March snow. March meant  the  sky  would  be  bright,  blindingly  bright,  not  the  cloudy darkness  of  January  or  the  dingy  gray  monotony  of  February,  the worst month. As the day progressed, sharp shadows would be cast across  the  snow  crust,  your  eyes  would  squint  from  the  bright-ness,  and,  with  no  wind,  you  might  unzip  your  coat.  Syracuse  in these  moments  could  be  a  Colorado  ski  slope.  March  was  differ-ent because the light brought the promise of spring, and the snow made everything lovely, freshly covered and pristine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut here was the important part: Sam figured that she was the only  person  on  earth  who  thought  March  snowstorms  were  won-derful, and this made her feel a bit proud of  herself. Always she liked to imagine herself as subtly different from everyone else, enjoying the tension and mystique of being ordinary on the surface but with a  radical,  original  interior  life.  For  example,  back  when  Sam  used to  shop  the  sales  at  the  Talbots  in  DeWitt  with  the  other  subur-ban ladies of her class and age, she separated herself. Sure, Sam had discovered that the classic A-line or sheath dresses made of solid-colored  ponte  knits  were  so  forgiving,  so  flattering  (“flattering,” that  tragic  word)  to  a  grotesque  midlife misshapenness—a blur-riness,  a  squareness,  really.  But  despite  being  there  and  shopping because of an “insider” email-blast notification of a super sale, Sam believed  that  she  was  different  from  the  other  women.  Inside  she was  mocking  the  calibrated  manipulations,  mocking  herself,  not-ing the corporate branding and lifestyle implications of the preppy styles and colors. The classic plaids, the buttons on the sleeves, the ballerina  flats  evoking  a  tastefully  understated  sensibility.  It  even occurred to her that the other women could be having the same in-terior thoughts and that the idea of conformity—at least in modern America—was  never  consciously  sought  after.  No  one  older  than a teenager thought, I want this because everyone else has it. No, Sam knew  that  you  were  sold  the  idea  that  you  could  be  independent-minded even as you bought what everyone else bought. You were allowed to keep a vain and precious sense of agency. This was the very secret to consumerism working in a sav vy, self-conscious cul-ture.  Her  sense  of  resistance  was  as  manufactured  as  her  need  to buy  flattering  clothing.  Nevertheless  (!),  Sam  also  believed  that her having such self-critical, self-reflexive thoughts as she shopped set  her  apart  from  the  other  women.  Surely.  So  she  still  believed herself to be (however stealthily) an eccentric person, not suited to conventions of thought or sensibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLately  this  desire  to  be  contrary  to  convention  had  taken  on  a new  urgency  well  beyond  clothes  or  matters  of  taste.  An  unruly, even  perverse  inclination  animated  her.  It  had  been  looking  for  a place to land, for something to fasten on. So now (not before), this odd inner state pushed her toward a highly destabilizing wildness (a recklessness) that she couldn’t suppress any longer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  pulled  on  the  same  clothes  she  had  worn  the  day  before: stretched-out  jeans  and  a  black  cowl-neck  sweater.  She  no  longer wanted  to  open  her  closet  full  of  clothes.  Why  did  she  need  so many, so much? In the last few months, things that used to capti-vate her no longer did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe crept downstairs and made herself a coffee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt  was  Sam’s  habit  to  check  out  the  real  estate  listings  online. She  had  the  bored-housewife  pastime  of  attending  open  houses. She knew many of the other people there also had no intention to buy but had come to snoop into other people’s lives or to calculate land values or to imagine a fantasy life brought on by the frame of fresh  architecture.  This  last  impulse  made  sense  to  her.  She  had even wanted, at one point, to study architecture (and history, and women’s  studies,  and  literature),  but  she  had  talked  herself  out  of it  and,  in  what  she  characterized  to  her  friends  as  a  retro  move, she had gotten married and then pregnant instead. She settled for becoming an architectural amateur. And a “stay-at-home mom” (a term  she  found  degrading,  as  if  she  were  a  prisoner  under  house arrest).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnusual  old  structures  (Syracuse  had  many)  excited  her:  they were a visible-but-secret code, the past rendered in materials that could  be  seen  and  touched.  For  example,  the  abandoned  People’s A ME Zion Church on East Fayette Street. Its tiny perfect form sat on  a  sturdy,  intact  limestone  foundation.  Paint-peeled  crumbling white  brick  rose  into  a  modest  bell  tower  next  to  a  large  Gothic-pointed stained-glass window. But the building was lost in the con-crete  dead  zone  around  I-81,  grown  over  with  box  maple  saplings and covered with graffiti, the windows long boarded up. It belonged to the oldest Black congregation in Syracuse, built a hundred years ago  to  replace  a  structure  at  another  site  that  dated  to  the  1840s, when  it  had  been  a  part  of  the  Underground  Railroad.  Sam  had seen old photos of this church when it was a thriving center of the Fifteenth  Ward,  before  the  neighborhood  was  destroyed  in  the name of urban renewal. Yet it sat stranded and forgotten. Syracuse had so much history that it could neglect wide swaths of it. When Sam  saw  a  building  that  no  one  else  seemed  to  see  anymore,  she would  stop  her  car,  get  out,  walk  around  the  perimeter,  and  even lay her hand on a brick as a form of communion and respect. Fasci-nating old buildings and houses, empty or still in use, called to her from  all  over  the  city.  She  sometimes  drove  out  of  her  way  just  to glimpse one of her favorites.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut  open  houses  gave  her  the  rare  chance  to  go  inside,  which was  a  much  more  intimate  experience.  As  soon  as  she  crossed the threshold into a house’s space, she could feel it shape who she was—or would be—in some deep way. Whenever she had a chance to walk inside one, she did, which always worked as an act of imagi-nation, an act she loved. What would it feel like to live here, wake up here, argue with your husband here?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis open house intrigued her because it was cross-listed on an Instagram account for architecture nerds:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnique Arts and Crafts bungalow designed by Ward Wellington Ward in 1913. For sale for $38,000! Intrepid buyers only—needs complete rehab. Most original details intact. 110 Highland St., Syracuse, 11am–2pm Sunday. See link in bio for more #cheapoldhouses#saveoldstuff#bungalow#restoration #casementwindowsforthewin\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  was  the  only  fantasy  lurker  attending  the  open  house  at 110 Highland Street that Sunday morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe house was falling apart. The house was beautiful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt  had  leaded  glass  windows,  built-in  shelves,  and  hidden  stor-age  benches.  Two  of  the  benches  were  framed  by  wood-beamed closures  (“the  inglenook”)  and  sat  at  either  end  of  (oh,  what  she longed  for!)  an  elaborate  tile-lined  fireplace  (“Mercer  Moravian tiles”). Sam imagined sitting in the nook, gazing at the fire, reading a book. The tiles were dirty with layers of dust but still intact. She could pick out a narrative in the relief images. (“Saint George and the  Dragon,”  the  agent  said.)  The  clay  finish  was  a  rustic,  uneven glaze, the colors pink, green, and white. She touched her fingertips to  the  tiles  and  felt  an  undeniable  connection.  Someone  on  some podcast  had  talked  about  “grounding.”  It  was  when  you  walked outside with bare feet and let the earth connect with your body. It was  supposed  to  right  you,  your  circadian  rhythms  or  something. Help you get over jet lag. Or maybe it was to mitigate the endocrine disruption of chronic toxic exposure. Or to counter EMF, the low-level but constant electromagnetic waves from Wi-Fi and cellular towers.  Or  maybe  all  of  that,  grounding  promoted  as  a  systemic cure-all. Sam scoffed at the idea, even despised it as New Age crap, yet as her fingers touched the tiles, she felt grounded. There was no other word for it, as if a corrective current flowed from the house through the dusty tile and into her hand and, truly, her whole body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe tiles were set against patterned deep red brick topped by a mantel made of dark oak, also dirty but intact. Maybe it was Gus-tav  Stickley  or  it  was  William  Morris  who  wrote  about  the  Arts and  Crafts  ideal,  how  the  fireplace  should  be  a  work  of  everyday art.  It  looked  handmade  and  warm,  and  its  beauty  was  in  its  util-ity  and  simplicity:  she  was  cold,  she  needed  a  fire.  The  hearth drew  her  in,  invited  her  to  sit.  She  now  understood  the  fireplace as a form of secular worship. She imagined it would make her feel close to something elemental. (“Obviously, the chimney will have to  be  looked  at.”)  To  keep  her  sanity  over  the  long  Syracuse  win-ter, Sam needed this beautiful, old, heat-squandering open fire. At her house in the suburbs, they had a glass-fronted gas fireplace that gave off some regulated, efficient BTUs of heat and a low, exhaust-ing fan hum. The gas flame had a cold blue at its center.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This house is on the historic register as the Garrett House. It even has a Wikipedia page. Designed by the architect Ward Wel-lington Ward.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,  I  read  that  in  the  notice,”  Sam  said.  “I’m  familiar  with him.” She had seen some of his house plans at the Onondaga His-torical  Association.  Meticulous,  in  colored  pencil  and  ink.  The three W’s of his name, the repetition of the “Ward”s at each end, the  short-long-short  look  of  it,  all  drawn  in  that  distinctive  Arts and Crafts lettering. Everything was a work of art, even his name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh  good.  So  you  know  his  houses  are  very  special.  Garrett had it built in 1913. After he and his wife died, it fell into neglect-ful  hands,  but  none  of  the  original  details  are  ruined.  Clearly  it needs  some  TLC:  a  heating  system,  electrical  updates,  new  roof, mold  abatement.  Possibly  a  chimney  rebuild.  Better  drainage  in the  basement.  Shore  up  the  foundations.  But  it’s  still  a  wonderful house, no?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,” Sam said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLater she drove to the big suburban Wegmans and bought some wild  halibut,  diced  sweet  potato,  and  triple-washed  organic  baby spinach  for  dinner.  She  also  got  Ally’s  favorite  fruit,  mango,  and her   husband’s   favorite   cereal,   No-Grain   Vanilla   Granola,   and several  liter  bottles  of  that  German  mineral  water  she  liked.  She took the groceries to their house. No one was home yet. And then, instead of cooking, she got in her car and drove back into the city. It was nearly six, and the sun was starting to go down. The sky was backlit, iridescent, spring bright, and as she drove she watched the clouds close to the horizon glow pink and orange. She drove back to the city because she had to see the house in this dusk light, this ridiculous, almost garish light. She crested the hill. She pulled into the  house’s  tiny  driveway.  The  roofline  was  steep,  and  the  shitty asphalt tiles were coming undone. But. The front windows and the side windows faced the sunset. The city in all directions gleamed, and it looked as if an ocean lay beyond the clouds, some giant lake or  shore.  Ward  Wellington  Ward,  this  architect,  he  must  have known.  He  thought  of  the  sky  and  the  trees  as  he  designed  his house;  he  knew  how  much  you  need  those  early-spring  sunsets  in Syracuse, even if they glisten off a foot of snow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe retrieved the business card from her coat pocket and called the real estate agent. “I want it,” the words coming up from some reptilian (perhaps paleomammalian, limbic, sublimbic) area of her brain,  some  part  of  her  she  never  knew  existed.  “I  want  to  make an  offer,  I  mean.  Can  we  do  that  today?”  It  felt  easy.  She  signed the papers and wrote a check for the deposit. Inner life had spilled out and become outer life. She wrote an X in the box to waive the inspection. As is.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat drew her to the house was its nature: the house was a par-adox,  both  rustic  and  elegant.  It  was  contrived  to  be  functional, but  emotionally  functional.  After  all,  who  needs  a  built-in  bench by the fire? The huge hearth was clearly inefficient. Beauty was its own value, as was the experience of living. It felt hand-constructed, personal. Yet it reeked of artifice, “Arts and Crafts” meant to evoke home  and  nostalgia  through  cozy  appropriations  of  English  cot-tages and, oddly enough, some idea of a country church. Also, the state of the house. Dirty, falling apart, empty for too long.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was wrecked. It was hers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe got in her car, and she looked back once more at the house, maybe  to  imprint  its  image  in  her  heart,  the  way  you  might  look at a departing loved one. Sam noticed a white bit of paper tucked into the front door’s frame. She got out of the car and walked over to  see  what  it  was.  She  plucked  a  corner  with  two  fingers,  and  as she  pulled  it,  she  felt  a  heavier  paper  stock  than  she  was  expect-ing. Almost like an index card, but smaller and more rectangular, palm-sized. She turned it over. It had letterpress printing, blue on creamy white:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBEWARE: NTE IS COMING\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSam shrugged. What was NTE? Was it an ad? A religious message? Or  a  sort  of  warning?  But  the  production  values  of  the  message gave it weight and substance, so she tucked the little card into her jean pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  drove  back  to  her  home  in  the  suburb,  and  only  then  did she  realize,  as  she  drove,  that  she  was  leaving  her  husband.  Matt. That  she  would  go  live  in  the  broken-down  house  in  the  city,  the unloved,  forgotten  house  with  the  view  of  the  unloved,  forgotten city. Why? Because she alone could see the beauty. It was meant for her. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—resist. And saying yes to this version of her life would mean saying no to another version of her life.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304153501925,"sku":"NP9780593312490","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593312490.jpg?v=1767743652","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/wayward-isbn-9780593312490","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}