This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage Read Online Free PDF Page A

it’s less. All I have to do is agree, and he or she will tell me the ( Compelling! Unforgettable! ) story, and I will type it up in his or her own voice, a task that is presumed to be barely above the level of transcription. Like those random Internet letters that begin Dear Sir or Madam and tell of the countless millions that will be left to me, This is my lucky day .
    I feel for these people, even as they’re assuming I’m not bright enough to realize where they’ve gotten stuck. I would also like to take this opportunity to apologize on the record to Amy Bloom, because once when we were madly signing books at the end of a New York Times book and author lunch (with Alan Alda, Chris Matthews, and Stephen L. Carter in between us, a very busy event), an older woman appeared at the front of my line to tell me that the story of her family’s arrival from the old country was a tale of inestimable fascination, beauty, and intrigue, and that it must be made into a book, a book that I must write for her. I politely but firmly demurred, saying that I was sure it was a fantastic story but I scarcely had the time to write about my own family’s journey from the old country, much less all the things I made up. She kept on talking, outlining in broad strokes her parents and their sacrifices and adventures. No , I said, trying to hold on to good manners, that is not what I do. But she didn’t budge. She leaned forward and wrapped her fingers beneath the table’s edge in case someone thought to try to pull her away. Short of yes , nothing I said was going to dislodge her from her spot. The crowd was backing up behind her, people who wanted to get my signature quickly so they could be free to adore Alan Alda (who was fully worthy of adoration). When I was completely out of tricks, I told the woman from the old country to ask Amy Bloom. Amy Bloom might be interested , I said, and I pointed my pen three authors away. The woman, seized by the prospect of a new captive audience, scurried into Amy’s line. It was a deplorable act on my part, and I am sorry.
    If a person has never given writing a try, they assume that a brilliant idea is hard to come by. But really, even if it takes some digging, ideas are out there. Just open your eyes and look at the world. Writing the ideas down, it turns out, is the real trick, a point that was best illustrated to me on one of the more boring afternoons of my life. (Boring anecdote, thoughtfully condensed, now follows.) I once attended a VanDevender reunion in Preston, Mississippi, a dot on the map about forty-five minutes from Shuqualak (inevitably pronounced “Sugarlock”). I went because I am married to a VanDevender. It was not a family reunion, but rather a reunion of people in Mississippi named VanDevender, many of whom had never met before. The event was held in a low, square Masonic Lodge built of cinder blocks on a concrete slab that was so flush with the ground there was not even a hint of a step to go inside. All we could see was a field and, beyond that, a forest of loblolly pines. Because we had come so far with our friends, distant VanDevender cousins, we were planning to stay for a while. It was in the third or fourth hour of this event that one of the few VanDevenders I had not already engaged said that my husband had told her I was a novelist. Regrettably, I admitted this was the case. That was when she told me that everyone had at least one great novel in them.
    I have learned the hard way not to tell strangers what I do for a living. Frequently, no matter how often I ask him not to, my husband does it for me. Ordinarily, in a circumstance like this one, in the Masonic Lodge in Preston, Mississippi, I would have just agreed with this woman and sidled off ( One great novel, yes, of course, absolutely everyone ), but I was tired and bored and there was nowhere to sidle to except the field. We happened to be standing next to the name-tag table, where