#ReadWithMC-Welcome to Marie Claire's virtual book club. It's a pleasure to meet you, and for the month of August we will be reading Elisa Albert's "Human Blues". It is an unforgettable, darkly funny novel about a singer-songwriter and the intersection of motherhood, ambition, and technology. Read an excerpt from the novel below and find out how you can participate. (You really don't have to get off the couch.)

She bled right out. Damn. Another pregnancy test came back negative.

You're entering the real world, a sign on the fence behind the property read. It was New Year's Day. Trash had fallen among the weeds by the side of the road. A soda can, a fast food wrapper, a plastic bag, and a square of Handy Wipes still intact, on which someone had written, "This is not a condom."

Denial. Again. [She was very patient. Really patient...for over a year. Damn. Negative for almost two years. Almost three years. And again, and again, and again, and still nothing. Damn. Negative. Again. Again. Again. Again.

She'd been taking it easy on this one for a long time: whatever happened, happened. What happens happens. Of course it will. Of course it will. No need to stress. No need to panic. The important thing is not to panic. She was (relatively) happy, (relatively) healthy, in her mid-thirties, and in a great relationship. But at some point the negative year started. She became really quiet. Confused. Scared. Crazy. Sad. She gritted her teeth, dug in her heels, and tried to find a way to live this situation as openly as possible. She read every book, listened to every podcast. She changed her diet, her perspective, her expectations. She "made space." She evoked her soul and gathered her bones.

And still nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Negative pee stick, negative pee stick, negative pee stick, negative pee stick, negative pee stick. Over and over and over again. And now she was furious. Furious. What the hell. Now she is totally begging. Please. Please. Seriously. There is no dignity anymore. She was foaming at the mouth. She gritted her teeth and mumbled to herself. Now she was half mad at the injustice of it all. Now her pregnancy near her orbit felt like a low branch to the eye.

Last summer, the Queen of Tarot in the Berkshires told this tearful and barren pleader that there were absolutely cherubim everywhere. 'Great news, honey: you're surrounded by angels.

Yay. That's great. But no. But... No. Awakening, hope, collapse, death, awakening, hope, collapse, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death.

Yet how many times has she told herself not to worry? This was not something that could be accomplished with her head. The key was to put it out of her mind. Stop worrying, "give up," and bam. Enough was enough, and he set out on a round-the-world trip with his savings. I had a one-night stand with a plumber from Australia. He adopted a child. This was not something I responded well to thinking about. This was not something that I could tell him what to do. [19] [20] So Aviva officially relaxed. She let go again and again. She surrendered again and again. She was resolutely calm. for one year. for two years. for three years. Still, she was in denial. Again. Again. Again. One more time.

Damn. [I couldn't stand it. (I can't think. (Oh, yeah. She stopped to catch her breath and whispered to the indifferent, desolate hillside, the chilly blue sky, and the scattered cotton ball clouds. Soda cans, fast food wrappers, plastic bags, and squares of handheld tissue ...... All of these were dumped into the studio's trash can and placed for the umpteenth time on the Negative Motherfucking Pee Stick.

The site was an artist's colony, a hybrid rehab/camp/meditation center for creators: 30 writers, musicians, poets, painters, sculptors, and composers living and working here for weeks or months on a paltry stipend and using the good old No-excuses creative exercises and rehearsed little reenactments of the family that inevitably occurred during the occasional fuckfest. You have to eat your own lunch, but breakfast is buffet style, and starch, vegetables, and protein are provided for dinner. They have their own studio space in the forest, and if they want to make friends, they make friends; if they don't want to make friends, they keep their distance. Aviva changed every few days whether she wanted to make friends or not, which made her really popular.

She was here to mess around and make room for what might come next. It was Jerry's idea. It was her manager. Aviva's fourth album would be released in a few weeks, and the biggest tour of her career to date was imminent.

Jerry said. "This album is the turning point.

"Keep your pants on, Jerry." Whatever, you little prick. Calm down. Calm down. Write some new music. Stay one step ahead on any tour. Lou Reed used to say that."

"Art and commerce are undeniably at odds. Her first album was a punkish little DIY affair, recorded at an independent studio (a.k.a. a fallen producer's guesthouse in Culver City). It was limited to 1,000 CDs and was a small cult hit, receiving surprisingly favorable press and being acquired and reissued by a small but respectable indie label, which was busking on the Venice Beach boardwalk on weekends to earn tips. Who doesn't like big-breasted, young, weird, prim and proper hippie-folk-punk freaks?

The second album was produced by some hired shithead. That asshole pushed her into the wrong look/narrative/sound. He used a lot of drums and ironic synthesizers. She knew it was wrong. Uncomfortable costumes. But what did she know about the industry back then ......" She wanted to get along and be agreeable. The single from that album, inspired by a doomed love affair her brother Rob had while dying of a brain tumor, was a paean to terminally ill dating. It's a stupid disaster girl anthem, every breakup is an existential crisis, the video for Fuck Me Faith covered in tears, and the same old shit. Yet the song ended up being used as the closing credits for the finale of a popular TV drama.

Used with permission from Human Blues (opens in new tab) (Avid Reader Press, 2022). Copyright © 2022 by Elisa Albert.