An Accidental Ode To My Husband
A Literal Literary Loser Loves a Lot
When I published my Figure Skating Mystery Series after working as a researcher, writer and producer for various television skating shows on ABC, TNT and NBC, readers wanted to know, “Are your characters based on real-life skaters?”
I pointed them to the disclaimer at the front, which read: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
When I made the transition to historical fiction with “The Nesting Dolls” and “My Mother’s Secret: A Novel of the Jewish Autonomous Region,” readers wanted to know, “Are your characters based on real-life family members?”
I pointed to the disclaimer at the front again. And added, “Really. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.”
Said disclaimer was met with some skepticism. My oldest son couldn’t understand why. “In “The Nesting Dolls,” Gideon is Black, grew up in Harlem going to private schools, and then went to Cal Tech. Dad is Black, grew up in Harlem going to private schools, and went to MIT. Obviously, they are completely different people!”
My daughter, on the other hand, started reading “The Nesting Dolls,” then decided that the first part, set in 1930s USSR was too sad. She didn’t even bother with the second part, set in 1970s USSR. She said she only read the third part, set in present day Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, because “I like reading about you and Daddy dating and being so adorably nerdy.”
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.
In my upcoming May 2025 “Go On Pretending,” when I needed some guidance on a particular story point, I asked my daughter, “Can you pretend that you’re the daughter of a Soviet-Jewish soap-opera writer and an overeducated Black man from Harlem?”
She scrunched up her forehead, concentrated, and said, “Yeah, I think I can do that.”
Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
No. Really. I mean it.
“Go On Pretending” does feature real people. There’s Irna Phillips, the woman who invented soap operas, and Agnes Nixon, her protege and future creator of “All My Children” and “One Life To Live.” There’s George Abrams, the American Harvard graduate who stood in front of the Kremlin during Moscow’s 1957 World Youth Festival and read out loud from the United Nations’ report on the USSR’s recent actions in Hungary. There’s Phil Donahue, and there are the rebels of Rojava.
I didn’t set out to make “Go On Pretending” about my husband and me. (Honestly, as my daughter sussed out, Zoe and Gideon from “The Nesting Dolls” are a better approximation.) And I didn’t. Rose Janowitz and Jonas Cain are very different from Alina Adams and Scott Wickham.
Rose Janowitz and Jonas Cain’s life trajectory is very different from my husband’s and mine. Except in one way.
Somehow, without meaning to, “Go On Pretending” turned into an accidental ode to the crux of our relationship. I didn’t realize it until I wrote the following scene, where Rose is speaking to her grown daughter, Emma:
“You don’t love your husband, do you?” It wasn’t an accusation. More of a surprise discovery which intrigued Rose so much she wanted to share it.
“How is that relevant to what we were talking about?”
“You don’t love him,” Rose repeated, confirming it for herself, not for Emma. “You admire him. You appreciate him. I’d even say you enjoy him. But you don’t love him.” Emma might as well have been one of her own specimens under a microscope.
Emma really needed this conversation to end. Sooner rather than later. “Not everybody, Mom, spends their life in a mutual admiration society where they think the other is the most amazing person who ever lived.”
Rose considered her daughter’s words. “They should.”
My husband and I celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary this weekend. (Yes, it often falls on Martin Luther King Day Weekend. Too on the nose?) We don’t do gifts. My husband cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen, which is gift enough. I folded laundry and cooked dinner. It was very romantic. (No, really, there is nothing more romantic than a clean bathroom and kitchen. I’m not joking.)
We don’t do Valentine’s Day, either. (That one is on me. I have strong feelings about Hallmark Holidays. They are not strong, good feelings.)
I saw a tweet the other day, which said: I don’t see how anyone can stay married for more than a couple of years, unless they just, like, adore each other every day or something.
So, yeah. That.
I always knew it, but I never put it into words until the Rose and Emma scene in “Go On Pretending.”
Like Emma, I realize that not everybody has that.
Like Rose, I believe that they should.
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