What Comes Next and How to Like It: A Memoir by Abigail Thomas
By Abigail Thomas
From the bestselling writer of A 3 puppy Life, which “shines with sincere intelligence” (Elizabeth Gilbert): a clean, exhilarating, beautifully written memoir approximately getting older, family members, creativity, tragedy, friendship, and the richness of life.
What comes subsequent? What comes after the devastating lack of Abigail's husband, a strategy either surprising and gradual? What shape does her lifelong platonic friendship take after a undeniable line is crossed? how you can deal with her daughter’s clinically determined affliction? Or the loss of life of her liked puppy? Is lifestyles worthy dwelling with out 3 cocktails earlier than dinner? How do you paint the sea on a sheet of glass?
And the best way to love it? find out how to settle for, savour, take pleasure in? who're our such a lot depended on, important partners and what is going to we do for them? rather than portray an ocean, paint a wooded area, flip it over, scrape the skin, and presto: there's the sea. while you’ve given up, in case you least anticipate it, there it is.
What Comes subsequent and the way to love It is an awfully relocating memoir approximately many stuff, yet on the heart is a steadfast friendship among Abigail Thomas and a guy she met thirty-five years in the past. via marriages, child-raising, the vicissitudes and tragedies of lifestyles, it's this deep, wealthy bond that has sustained her. Readers who enjoyed “the completely honed observations of a clear-eyed and witty author” (Newsweek) in Thomas’s “spare, striking” (Entertainment Weekly) memoir, A 3 puppy Life, will have fun with this pretty exam of her lifestyles today—often solitary, yet wealthy and fascinating, with young children, grandchildren, canines, a number of suitors, and her longtime ally.
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Extra resources for What Comes Next and How to Like It: A Memoir
It would have been Chuck I wanted to call. It’s Chuck I call now. I Can’t Lose You After months of silence, one of us wrote the other. “I can’t lose you like this,” the note said. We met for lunch. Our conversation was as careful as if we were ironing a shirt. It was not a success, but there was a reason we had been friends for so long, maybe it would unearth itself if we met again. It was hard work, like chopping wood, but we kept at it. Finally it was as if we climbed into two monster trucks and plowed over the rubble and crashed through the wall and came out the other side.
I don’t know,” I said carefully. ” “I don’t know,” I said again. I didn’t say, You’re not going to die, don’t be silly. “Make it up,” he told me. Yes I Was You were never depressed,” Chuck tells me now. “I was depressed. ” “I was too,” I say. ” We are standing on the curb at Forty-First and Broadway. It’s quarter to seven at night, March 2010. We have known each other for thirty-one years. He is a literary agent now, I am a writer. “You’re the least depressed person I know,” Chuck says, as the light changes.
That’s a long time to get nowhere. The story was about a thirty-year friendship that had a hole blown through it, but somehow survived. So instead of not-writing, I am painting. I’m not a painter, but I make paintings anyway. I use glass and oil-based house paint, which is toxic, and which you can’t buy just anywhere anymore. It’s being phased out in favor of latex, which doesn’t stick to glass, and acrylic, which I haven’t tried. Stacked on my garage windowsill are seventeen quarts of the stuff in various primary colors, in case the whole world stops selling it.