How do you write a book about intelligence when you don’t think you’re smart? How do you tackle a memoir about anxiety when you have a panic disorder? These are the questions I wrestled with for the near decade I spent avoiding this book. As my friends and fellow authors published one book after another, I sat at home, stunned in front of my computer, ashamed, filled with dread, and unable to move forward until I wrote this book that I could not write.
Without my family, friends, therapist, psychiatrist, antidepressants, the ghosts of loved ones, a few ex-boyfriends, and my dog, Busy, I would still be sitting in front of my laptop debilitated by fear and preemptively gutted by imaginary bad reviews. In the four years it took to write this, I was provided with support, guidance, reassurance, advice, dinners, patronage, early reads, late reads, emergency reads, tough love, and belief that my anxiety was bad enough to write about from this spectacular group of people: Nelly Reifler, Lynne Tillman, Robert Lopez, Melissa Febos, Julie Orringer, Maria Popova, Eva Karen Barbarossa, Megan Summers, Fiona Maazel, Nell Freudenberger, Lisa Edelstein, and Tenley Zinke. Space and time to write, swim, garden, eat, breathe, play archery, and participate in the occasional séance in Bearsville, New York, were made possible due to the blind generosity of Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer, at whose home I wrote a substantial amount of this book.
When I needed them, Sarah Manguso and Andrew Solomon came through like warrior ninjas with brilliant presale blurbs, followed soon after by Darin Strauss, A. M. Homes, Meg Wolitzer, and Alexandra Kleeman. And all the while, my writers group saw me through and cheered me on. My secret weapons were my agent, Bill Clegg, and my editor, Millicent Bennett. Together, and separately, they lifted, reshaped, cut, rearranged, and helped me create a narrative that matched the one I’d carried, without words, inside me for decades. And what’s more, they did it with the warmth and kindness of your long-practicing primary-care physician. (Please never retire.) For putting up with my anxious phone calls (one in actual tears), and for being hands-down lovely, I thank the Clegg Agency Team: Chris Clemans, David Kambhu, Simon Toop, and Marion Duvert. My gratitude to those at Grand Central for their belief, excitement, and effort, specifically: Caitlin Mulrooney-Lyski, Andrew Duncan, Joe Benincase, Liz Connor, Meriam Metoui, Ali Cutrone, Ben Sevier, Carolyn Kurek, Brian McLendon, Rachel Hairston, Karen Kosztolnyik, Karen Torres, and Michael Pietsch. I’m indebted to my brilliant cousin Sam Terris for his publicity help, and Gretchen Koss, I can’t remember who introduced us, but however we met, I’m forever grateful. (JK, Kimberly Burns—you’re the best.)
Toward the end, when I nearly called the whole thing off, Kara and Eddie Stern led me across an invisible bridge and never once joked about pushing me off. Throughout it all, quietly, and in the background, Judith Rustin raised me up with her wisdom, counsel, and encouragement each time I sank, and Joseph Squitieri kept me balanced. In less than two minutes, Dr. Steven Friedfeld saw in me what no one else did, and promptly saved my life.
To all of you—my love, appreciation, and gratitude.
But we’re not done!
For letting me write about them, special thanks to all my Stern and Stuart siblings: Kara, Eddie, Nick, Rebecca, Nina, Jes, Jms, and M. And my aunt Maggie Stern Terris, for always believing in me, and giving me the first round of incredible notes. While she refuses to learn how to read, I still must thank my furry, hypoallergenic heart, Busy Stern, for her patience, and for understanding what “Ten more minutes!” means. And, if you will reference the dedication, my parents, Eve and Eddie.
Finally—to you, dear book, I’m so glad I wrote you, and I’m so glad to be done.