Project Happily Ever After

Years ago, I worked with novelist Jennifer Haigh at a publishing company that produced health encyclopedias.

It was there that we worked on a book assembly line. One day I’d be writing tips for a chapter on dizziness. The next it might be about vegetables. And the next it was anal itching.

All right, truth be told, I never did have the displeasure of writing about anal itching or anal fissures or even about butt plugs—but other writers on the assembly line did. And we all joked about it. For instance, we’d be sitting at lunch, wolfing down 40 grams of fiber at a time, and saying things like, “I really hope I don’t end up with the anal fissures chapter. What are those things anyway?”

And then someone would answer the question, because someone had already done that chapter.

And then we’d all walk back to our desks absolutely convinced that we all had anal fissures, not to mention various forms of cancer and that ringing in your ears disease.

It’s not the type of work that any non-boredom-loving woman wants to do for the rest of her life, though. So within a few years Jennifer and I soon left for bigger and better things. She got a job as a magazine editor, and so did I. She switched jobs and started working at a women’s magazine in New York. I went freelance.

We lost touch.

I heard through a friend of a friend of one of Jennifer’s friends that Jennifer had gone back to school to the prestigious Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Through that friend of a friend of one of Jennifer’s friends, I also heard that, upon graduation, she was offered an impressive book deal.

And then? I heard nothing, as I also lost touch with the friend of a friend of one of Jennifer’s friends.

It wasn’t until I happened to be at an airport bookstore, trying to find a book to read on the airplane, that I found out what Jennifer had done next. There, facing out on the bookshelf, was Mrs. Kimble, Jennifer’s first novel. It had earned her the Pen/Hemingway Award and had made the bestseller list.

I nearly finished it before the plane landed. I then recommended it to my book club.

Before my book club meeting, it did cross my mind that I might get back in touch with Jennifer. Wouldn’t I be the Book Clubber of the Month if I showed up to a meeting with inside information I’d gotten directly from the author?

But I got scared. We’d once eaten mesclun greens together. We’d run 5-Ks together. We’d had long and involved discussions about the relative benefits of running and strength training. I don’t remember if we ever talked about butt plugs or not, but it wouldn’t surprise me if we had.

Still, I didn’t feel worthy. She was a great novelist. I was just a ghostwriter.

Flash forward a few more years. It’s roughly a month ago. A bookstore near me is going out of business. Everything is half off. I’m there hunting for bargains. I pick up a David Sedaris and a Seth Godin. And that’s when I see it. There on the shelf with the rest of the novels is The Condition. It’s facing out. I recognize her name instantly.

Of course I buy it.

Of course I read it.

Of course I am in total awe, because the characters are completely developed, the sentences are stunningly beautiful, and the plot is equal parts complicated, engrossing, and perfect.

And I’m struck by something. It’s this. The book is therapy. No, not the kind of therapy that leaves you happy and stress free and with temporary amnesia regarding the fact that you are still neurotic and will be for the rest of your life. No, not that kind of therapy.

It’s marriage therapy. It’s relationship therapy. It’s family therapy. It’s “I’d better stop acting like a neurotic dolt like these characters in this book, or I am going to screw up my life, too” therapy.

Indeed, the book delves into how a marriage and a family is done in by jealousy, secrecy, and the inability to communicate. Paulette McKotch is exceedingly jealous of every woman her husband comes in contact with—even though her husband obviously loves her dearly. As a result she pushes him away. She tries to control her children as if they were prison inmates. As a result, her children become strangers to her.

The entire McKotch family keeps secrets. They talk about inconsequential things, but they never broach the topics that matter most. They are a family who knows nothing about one another, but who still gathers around the table at Christmas and who goes through the motions of pretending to still care.

Throughout the book I wanted to smack Paulette. Woman, you are ruining your own life! Look what you are putting your children through! Wake up!

But she didn’t hear me.

I heard me, though. The book challenged me to be that much more authentic, that much more accepting, and that much more compassionate.

When I got to the last page, I sighed a satisfied sigh, but I was not ready to let go. So I read the acknowledgments. And then I read the author question and answer. And then I put the book on my chest and I ran my fingers over it and made love to it for a while.

And then I did something that, after reading Mrs. Kimble, I did not have the courage to do. I emailed Jennifer’s publisher and asked if someone wouldn’t mind letting Jennifer know how proud I was of her. By the end of the day, Jennifer and I were emailing back and forth. We were reminiscing about all of the fiber we once ate for lunch. More important, she knew that I was proud of her. I knew that she was proud of me. She agreed to sign a book copy for this site’s January Reader of the Month, and I put her in touch with a blogger who wanted to profile her.

We were back in touch. We weren’t talking about our fear of anal fissures, but that’s probably a good thing. I’m now one of her biggest fans. And I think you should be, too.

Buy the book.

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