"Writing Saved My Life"
Still Life At Eighty Three—A Happy Birthday Homage to Abigail Thomas
“Love, Love can accommodate all sorts of misshapen objects: a door held open for a city dog who runs into the woods; fences down; some role you didn’t ask for, didn’t want. Love allows for betrayal and loss and dread. Love is roomy. Love can change its shape, be known by different names. Love is elastic. And the dog comes back.” —Abigail Thomas
Dear Friends,
Thank you for reading, commenting, and sharing. I truly value the time you give to my stories—more than you know. Welcome new subscribers.
Today, Sunday, October 13th calls for a celebration. I share a precious gift—the birthday of the beloved writer and cherished friend among the Substack community and beyond, Abigail Thomas, hailed as 'The Emily Dickinson of Memoir' by Stephen King. The captivating curious woman who told me,
'Writing saved my life.'
My friendship with Abigail began in a dream. I recorded it: 'It’s fascinating. I’m in a big house, walking slowly. Little beings—dogs, birds, faces—are scattered throughout different rooms. A woman is reading, no, she is reciting aloud as she walks. Nothing distracts her. Two others are nearby—a daughter and a man, possibly her husband. She tells the story of how they met, still reciting her life aloud, uninterrupted. Her curiosity is intense yet gentle. She notices everything.' I woke with a powerful desire to meet this woman.
An Unexpected Delight
In 2022 I took my first memoir writing online course with
and . What Comes Next and How to Like It by Abigail was one of the four evolutionary memoirs we read. I devoured this book, along with A Three Dog Life, during a women’s winter retreat in Rhode Island. A woman named Lorraine, heard me chuckling in a cozy chair in front of the fireplace with her book in hand, 'I know Abigail. I’ve been in her writing circle for years.' I thought, Holy shit. I have to meet her. I sent Abigail a message on Facebook. She replied immediately: 'We should get together for coffee.' By then, I was miles away on the West Coast but would soon host a retreat in Vermont.I crawled through the window of the dream and hatched a plan. My daughter Abby came along. For three days, we went back and forth between Abigail’s house and the Hotel Dylan in Woodstock, New York.
another good friend from Substack joined us for dinner—which made me smile.It was raining cats and dogs when we left the Pearl Moon. I love East Coast downpours, but this one put anything from my upstate New York childhood to shame. Nan slipped out the back exit. Our car was parked in front somewhere. After pondering our umbrellaless dilemma, we waded through a fast-moving roadside stream. I soaked my shoes hefting Abby into the passenger seat. Abigail opened the backdoor when I noticed her dropped cane and jaw, I dove ahead and snagged her cane just before it sank into the gutter. Uncontained laughter exploded. All three of us might have wet ourselves. Who would know? We were soaked.
Abigail’s house was exactly as I’d seen in my dream. The little people? Clay figurines scattered everywhere. The dogs are real. Olive and I forget. Her daughter lives on the property, and the story of her dear friend Chuck is woven tenderly into her writing.
, and I pulled out some of our favorite quotes, taking care not to spoil your opportunity to check out her many books and her substack: What Comes Next?“There is nothing like calamity for refreshing the moment.”
“Writing things down is not the same thing as writing, but experience put raw on the page kept me sane during a time of trauma.” —Abigail Thomas
“I began to write at forty-eight and discovered that not knowing what I was doing was both an advantage and an adventure. It didn’t matter that I knew nothing. I had plenty of stories from my own life, I could turn them into fiction if I threw myself a curve, broke one or two of its bones, so the story had to change and then I was on an adventure, no idea where it would take me. I didn’t worry about narrative arcs or denouements or character development, everything I had missed by not going to college for more than a semester. (I was asked to leave Bryn Mawr for being pregnant. The Haverford boy didn’t get kicked out.) Since Bill’s workshop, I have plundered my life, written two collections of short stories, one small novel, four memoirs, a book about writing memoirs, and three books for children. These days I write when something grabs my attention and I’m curious: why this, why now? Especially if it makes no sense, because you never know what’s waiting to be discovered. I’m eighty-three in three days, and I am still a beginner every time I sit down to write. Hell of a lot more fun than knowing what you’re doing.” —Beginners Mind, Abigail’s Substack.
“Nothing is wasted when you are a writer. The stuff that doesn’t work has to be written to make way for the stuff that might.” —Abigail Thomas
We chatted over French toast soaked in real butter and maple syrup. Abigail told us about her friend Beverly Donofrio, who wrote Riding in Cars with Boys, a 2001 American biographical film based on the autobiography of herself as a woman who overcame difficulties, including being a teen mother, and who later earned a master's degree. The movie's narrative spans the years 1961 to 1986. I watched it last night. It is amazing what has changed for women and what has not.
We spoke about her interview on Daring to Tell, a podcast of true stories read by writers who lived them.
We sifted through endearing stories of her best friend, Chuck, “If something happened that was bad, there would be a pause. He would put in words exactly what I meant to say as if he could read between the lines. He was an enormous help in my life.”
“If Chuck could come back just for a minute or maybe in a dream, He’d straighten me out or make me laugh, or both.”
We played with ‘side doors.’ ‘The dog took her wig through the dog door.’ This was her side door to write about her daughter's bout with cancer. ‘That’s what this cancer is and what it does. Clarity came. Chuck always knew. He was incredible and it all started in slush.”
Writing Exercise: Pick any ten years of your life. Write two pages, three-word sentences. You have nowhere to hide in a three-word sentence.
Abigails example: “He was cute. I was clueless. It seemed right.”
My response: “Church bells rang. Altar boy yes. Altar girl no.”
Abigail had an idea. ‘Have you watched Jaws with Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfus? I love Robert Shaw.” Abby and I held our breath often throughout the movie. Abigail smiled while we froze. She had seen Jaws many times.
“I don’t write for other people to learn. I write for myself to learn. I write for clarity.”
“Sometimes, when I talk to my kids, they recount an incident, or a conversation, or an interesting moment in the not-so-distant past and it comes at me completely fresh and new. Every time! I’m going to view this as a plus. Nothing is old hat anymore. I don’t even wish I could remember what the last thing was.
I figure I have a choice. I can worry myself into the ground. That’s one. Or I can think of my failing memory as an achievement. I am finally living in the moment.”
For Some Unknown Reason
“I am wearing lipstick today. I never wear lipstick anymore.
My grandson Augie, one of Katherine’s boys is here for a visit.
He looks at me accusingly. ‘Nana! You are wearing lipstick!’
I hem and haw, saying, Yes, I borrowed some from his mother.
I really can’t explain it even to myself.
“Nana!” He says. “Your lips are a lie!”
Abigail was smitten with my Abby—and I am smitten with Abigail.
Smitten means to be captivated by someone or something, often with a sudden, overwhelming affection. It conveys being enchanted or strongly attracted, whether romantically or through admiration.
We were sad to leave Abigail—her dogs, her clay, her humor, her continuous encouragement to—just write. She gave me a tiny book of writing exercises, a handmade notebook, and a heart full of gratitude for her simplicity and kindness.
I began putting words on the page ten years ago at fifty-six—as a sanity check to get through an unexpected traumatic initiation—a place I didn’t choose or want to be. “You’re a writer. You don’t have to know anything.” She tells us. “We write for clarity.”
I love that she freely tells Verizon, 'They can burn in hell.' She’s my kind of salty!
Happy Birthday Abigail Thomas—Your writing is saving people's lives.
Do you have a Favorite Quote by Abigail?
Please share your favorite quotes and Birthday wishes for Abigail in the Comments or go directly to her Substack What Comes Next? Consider becoming a paid subscriber.
Thank you for joining us to celebrate the voices of women who know shit.
Don’t miss: “What Comes Next?” Abigail Thomas has four children, twelve grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, two dogs, eleven books, and a high school education. Her books include Safekeeping; A Three Dog Life; What Comes Next and How to Like It; Still Life At Eighty, and Getting Over Tom (one of my favorites).
Today, she has a full house of loved ones singing to her, and dogs are nudging her to enjoy this day and not to worry about What Comes Next.
Until Next Time. Love,
Your Salty Crone, Prajna O’Hara
P.S. You can find substack interviews of Abigail with
(Oldster Magazine) and (B)Old Age: Interview. And in many other places—she’s a badass legend.
© Prajna O'Hara 2024
Beautifully written!
Prajna, best birthday present ever. Thank you for these memories and kind words. I can't thank you enough. You are such a good friend. I love that you dreamed about being in my house and your dream and my house matched. That is so cool. Thank you again.