To me, it’s a little daunting to determine who to acknowledge and thank when you’re writing about your entire life: “between the forceps and the stone,” as Joni Mitchell once put it. Who do you exclude? The doctor who pulled you out seems pretty important. In my case, he later became a very successful plastic surgeon; what Leonardo was to canvas, Dr. Schleckman was to saggy neck skin. Of course, there are the myriad schoolteachers who guided and authors who inspired; too many to list. And I’m thankful for the family I was blessed to be born into—the spectacular Shorts—as well as the guidance, patience, and endless love of my three children, Katherine, Oliver, and Henry. For me, there’s nothing more rewarding than getting a deep-tissue massage while glancing over and seeing one of your kids getting tutored in math.
More specific to this book—which I’m anxious to read—I can’t thank enough my collaborator, David Kamp. His cleverness and craft kept the year or so that we worked together as fun, focused, and painless as a thing like this can be. When I get to work with a writer I admire, everything seems to fall into place. So I must also thank Dick Blasucci, Paul Flaherty, Michael Short, David Feldman, Jon Macks, and all the other brilliant writers with whom I’ve been lucky enough to collaborate over the years.
I’ve always enjoyed working by committee, and have always understood that life is just so much easier when you can get the honest opinions of people you trust. So I deeply thank my manager, Marc Gurvitz, as well as my agents, Stacy Mark and Mel Berger. And as far as the late Bernie Brillstein goes, not a day goes by in which I don’t think of something he once said and burst out laughing.
At HarperCollins, bless you, David Hirshey, Kathy Schneider, Rachel Elinsky, Leah Wasielewski, Milan Bozic, and Sydney Pierce, and Emily Hirshey, for so seamlessly facilitating the journey of this memoir.
As far as the front and back covers of this book are concerned, photographer Sam Jones and his team of airbrushers are simply the best you can get—and again, thanks, Sam, for the bike.
To my beloved friends, there’s simply no life without you guys. Thanks for the advice and the love and the billion dinners and laughs. Without you all . . . I’d look for new friends and get them.
Oh, dear, I’m sure I’m leaving people out. Again, it’s a horrible sort of list to have to come up with. Can you imagine? All right. Enough. I’m at my cottage as I type. I think it’s time for a swim.
—M.S., Snug Harbour, Summer 2014