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Jayne Wilson

Jayne Wilson is a writer, ornery bookseller, and chocolate malt enthusiast. She believes in literature (except Wuthering Heights); classic rock, metal, and punk rock (except the Sex Pistols); and love (no exceptions). She is a half-Asian mutt and an honorary Russian. She splits her time between the Bay Area and the green hills in her head, where hobbits, gnomes, and the occasional wizard roam free.

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Jayne Wilson

  • The Lady Bromance

    My best friend and I met in high school – nerdy, awkward, well-read, and generally just over the whole adolescent rebellion thing (because we were far too cool, obviously). The actual events of our meeting were probably really boring – like looking timidly and kind of suspiciously at each other from across a wide, wooden…

  • 8 Short Stories You Need to Read Before You Die

    The first short story I ever wrote was about a family of paper hearts, written and illustrated on pieces of badly-cut construction paper, then read proudly and dramatically out loud to my first grade class during show and tell. Nearly two decades after the fact, I am a twenty-something with seventeen written and abandoned drafts…

  • If You’ve Got Her, Flaunt It

    As far as girlfriends go, I like to think of myself as a pretty damn cool one. Now, I know pretty much every girl on the planet thinks this about herself and that her boyfriend is forced to agree upon pain of death, but considering that I spent the majority of my life eating my…

  • More Pliable Than Steel

    The San Francisco I knew when I was growing up had an abandoned hospital tucked in the Presidio. In junior high, my then best friend, Luke and I had a morbid fascination with it, if for no other reason than it looked like a pretty creepy trip. After school at his house, after I finished…

  • You Lost Me

    You are a 13-year-old boy, athletic, with average intelligence and one of those lopsided half-smirks that says you know you’re going to grow up good-looking. You have tiny pimples lining your forehead and nowhere else, your voice still cracks in all the wrong places, and you can’t help but laugh whenever the teacher says Uranus…

  • Memories of My Dreaming Men

    So I have this thing, where I like to watch men while they sleep. And, yes, I’m perfectly aware that that is the kind of sentence that will have even my best friend connecting this fact with the suicidal goldfish I had in college, and the numerous Barbie decapitations that occurred during my childhood, to…

  • In Trouble With Troubling Books

    The first time my mother received a phone call home from one of my teachers was when, at five years old, I hit a classmate over the head with my metal Aladdin pencil case. Later, at home, laughably tiny in the green skirt of my school uniform, staring at her wide-eyed from between the strands…

  • We the New Romantics

    A little over a year ago, in a car on our way to Monterey, I turned to my best friend all passionate and self-righteous and said, “You know what I understand even less than men? Women who give things up once they have men.” “How do you mean?” “You know, those girls who turn into…

  • The Art of Being Alone

    During the slightly self-destructive period of my youth that I’ve come to fondly dub “The Dark Ages,” I spent the majority of the school lunch hour in the library. What’s embarrassing about this – beyond the obvious geeky stigma associated with anything having to do with the library – is that I didn’t have any…

  • Harness the Power

             One of my mother’s favorite stories to tell from the Genesis of Jayne’s Abrasive Bravado is the time a bald, three-year-old me broke her left arm from, of all things, reading. As she tells it, I had been sitting comfortably on the armrest of our living room couch, one hand holding…

  • Tis the Season to be Literate

    There are many, many reasons why the holidays are a source of great and profound alarm in me. My friends claim that it might be because I don’t actually have a soul, but being that I’m now the kind of girl who considers it a monumental, impossibly neon sign whenever Johnny Cash’s version of, “If…

  • Black Drops

    by Jayne Wilson When I was five years old, my parents lost me in a department store. I had stepped off the escalator too early, maybe, or too late, and suddenly there I was, standing alone in the lingerie department flanked by scantily-clad mannequins. I blinked, stupidly. And then I cried. This would’ve been traumatizing…