And then the sun is up. A brand-new day. Light snakes through the cabin window and highlights a fallen white cloud, my wedding dress, badly stained and beautifully crumpled in the corner.
I pick it up. Sniff it. Study it. From the back, I pull out that little fishing fly.
In the bathroom, I study my face.
This morning, the wrinkles are welcome, proud reminders of where I’ve been. Mere indicators of where smiles have been. And will be.
Under a small box of Cheerios, I leave a note for my husband: “Gone fishing.”
I kiss him on the forehead before sneaking out.
On the porch, I step into Dad’s boots once more and walk toward the Clubhouse. I pull the key from the chain around my neck.
This locker room has no naked bodies, no smooth jazz. Just sturdy chairs and mounted trout.
When I get to Dad’s locker, I pause before trying the key, wondering if I want to do this. But I turn, and the gray locker swings open. The smell of sweat and fish and tobacco floats toward me. And I see his things. The rods he collected over the years, his old fishing vest, a tin of cigars. A handle of Irish whiskey, half full. A box of flies.
On a shelf at the top of the locker is a small stack of books.
The old maroon leather dictionary.
A first edition of Charlotte’s Web.
I grab Dad’s fishing creel and start filling it with these things.
I step into a boat, heft the anchor in, and start rowing. In the middle of the lake, under daisy chains of clouds in a periwinkle sky, I stop. Press pause. Look around.
The sun, the center stone of it all, shines bright.
I pull out Dad’s old dictionary and flip to the P’s. Prudence. n.) exercise of sound judgment in practical affairs; wisdom in the way of caution and provision; discretion; carefulness.
And I flip open Charlotte’s Web. Charlotte, awaiting death, speaks beautifully: We’re born, we live a little, we die.
And when she dies, she leaves her babies behind. And I think this part’s from the movie version (sorry, Dad), but Wilbur asks Charlotte’s daughters, Are you writers?
And they say, No, but we will be when we grow up.
And Wilbur says, Then write this in your webs, when you learn: This hallowed doorway was once the home of Charlotte. She was brilliant, beautiful, and loyal to the end. Her memory will be treasured forever.
And Charlotte’s daughters say, Ooh, that would take a lifetime.
A lifetime, Wilbur says. That’s what we have.
And out here on the water, under sunny skies, there’s a chorus of singing birds. Out here, I’m Quinn and Prudence. And neither. I’m a lawyer and a thinker. A daughter and a wife. A flower girl, rightfully scared of growing up, and a sated bride for whom fear is foolish. A Berry Baby. His blackberry girl.
Out here, I’m untethered. And the moments and days and years are plentiful and stretch before me. Moments and days and years full of big love and big doubt, of grief and loss and hope and fear. Of victories and mistakes. Of dreams and realities and stories. Of Cheerios and snow angels and Halloweens.
And memories.
A lifetime, I think. That’s what we have.
I take a large swig of Irish whiskey as the sun beats down on me.
I fight tears. And I take little fly from my pocket. That fly that’s been through it all. Our Parachute Adams. I tie it on.
I cast and drink.
And cry.
And smile.
Soon there’s a tug on the line.
She’s a fighter, but I pull her in. A young rainbow. Frightened, but strong. Quaking, yet defiant. I hold tight to her small body, throbbing for life, slippery like truth. Bravely, I pry the fly from quivering lips and look into her eyes, keen and searching. I give her a kiss and throw her back into waters brimming with life and death and everything in between.
And, prudently, she swims away, disappearing into the murky depths of a future wonderfully uncertain.
Acknowledgments
Truth be told, I have never been very good at writing thank-you notes. And here I sit, penning perhaps my most important thank-you note yet, utterly, unequivocally confident that I will somehow screw this up. Quinn, my beloved protagonist of my first novel, would tell me that life is all about screwing up, to get over myself, and to plow forward. And so I will.
First, a no-brainer. Thank you to my wonderful agent, Jean Naggar, a seasoned and spirited literary soul, for believing in me—and in Quinn—and for shepherding me through this exciting process with wise words and true grace. Without Jean and her fine colleagues at JVNLA, I would still be puttering away at Starbucks. Wait, I am still puttering away at Starbucks, but now I can (and will) tell the barista that I have published a novel.
A big thank you to my talented and enthusiastic editor, Lucia Macro, for taking a chance on this eager, but unknown entity, for sharing my belief in the power of reality and less-than-perfect fairy tales, and for making my dream come true even in an abysmal economy. Thank you to the many others at Harper Collins for making this all come together—in particular, Esi Sogah, Meredith Rusu, Stephanie Selah, Robin Bilardello, Jennifer Hart and your marketing team, Mike Brennan, Brian Grogan, and the Morrow/Avon sales group.
Thank you, Sarah Burningham, for your tireless support, your magical publicity mojo, and your fast friendship.
Thank you to all the fellow lawyers who have glided in and out of my life over the past several years. To my friends and colleagues at Willkie Farr & Gallagher LLP—thank you for letting me make a brief cameo in your high-wattage world, for being kind, for giving me stories, and for teaching me, above all else, what I want and what I don’t. Thank you to my attorney Jonathan F. Horn for helping me secure permissions for the Beatles lyrics I foolishly built this entire novel around.
Thanks to those who have encouraged, and helped me realize, my dream to write. First, a debt of gratitude to my many excellent teachers at my beloved alma maters—Dalton, Yale, and Columbia—who helped me hone my skills and find my voice. Thanks to Russell Rowland, my Montana mentor, a fine writer and devoted teacher, who read every line of this book more than once and held my virtual and shaky hand, chapter by chapter, to the end. Thank you Pete Putzel for putting me in touch with the fabulous Susan Isaacs and thank you, Susan, for pointing me in the direction of my incomparable and lovely literary agent.
Thank you to my brothers-in-law and to my bridesmaids. Thank you to my best friends and to my blog readers. And thanks to the best nanny ever. You all know who you are. And how important you are.
Thank you to the Rowley family for embracing me and accepting me and loving me like one of your own.
Thank you to my four sisters, the fabulous Donnelley girls: Inanna, Naomi, Ceara, and Tegan. You guys (and your little guys) continue to be my world.
Thank you, Dad. For your complex wildness, tough love, and contagious philosophy. For reading this story when yours was almost over. You are now fly-fishing in distant waters, but I feel your support and hear your deep laugh to this very day. Thank you for imploring us girls to seek genuine passion and to revere the rusty lunch pail. I love you always and miss you deeply.
Thank you, Mom. You have always been there, a strong force, a brilliant example—on the sidelines of my games, next to me at the dinner table, reading over my school papers. You were my very first and very best writing teacher. In many ways, in important ways, the words on these pages came from you as much as I did. I love you to pieces.
Last but not least, thank you to the loves of my life. To Bryan, my gorgeous groom, my favorite boy, my forever man. Simply stated, you are it for me. You understand me, you support me, you tolerate me. You knew I’d publish this story long before I did. You have made my life after yes endlessly rich and imperfectly exquisite. And, finally, thank you to my sweet little girls. I see everything good in your bottomless blues. Day after day, your love and silly laughter sustain me.
A+ AUTHOR INSIGHTS, EXTRAS & MORE…
FROM AIDAN DONNELLEY ROWLEY AND AVON A
May 18, 2010
Dear Mr. BigLaw,
How are you these days? We haven’t seen each other or spoken in a while, but I do hear about you from time to time. From friends and newspapers. Despite the recession and everything else, it sounds like you are surviving.
I know this letter is foolish. It will likely be lost in a big pile of paper on your polished marble desk. It is likely that you do not even remember me. That I was just one of the fungible young girls who flitted through your golden revolving door, a girl who never quite got your attention.
Truth be told, I think of you sometimes. In particular, about that day I left you. It was a Friday in late January and I really didn’t give you much warning. No, in many ways I blindsided you, spewing that clichéd excuse-upon-exit: it’s not you, it’s me. But I assure you this was true. Not that you care.
You were plenty good to me. You shrouded me with things: money and benefits and contacts. I basked in the glow of your impersonal warmth. But, in time, in a short time, I realized that in your corporate company, I felt stifled and sluggish and even a bit sad. I decided that I didn’t want to spend many years in a relationship that was good and secure, but far less than thrilling.
It didn’t take long to find your replacement. Writing. And he’s a dodgy fellow, not always easy to live with, but he inspires me each and every day. He has taught me what love is. What laughter is. What learning is. Our romance is not stuffed with Town Cars and four-star lunches, but with words and ideas and most importantly, questions.
But sometimes, in this new relationship, I feel moments of loneliness. And, in these quiet moments, I long for our conference room banter and catered buffets. For more predictable things. For pinstripes and power and prestige. For the brainstorming and business trips we used to enjoy. Or pretend to. And sometimes I miss being able to say that I am with you because I know that some people, too many people, were so impressed with that.
Maybe we didn’t have enough closure. Maybe I ran away too quickly because I could. Because I didn’t need you to support me. Maybe I fled fast because I was a bit scared. That I was being hasty. That I was making a profound mistake. Or maybe I escaped with little explanation because I knew even then the power you had over me. I knew that after everything, after all those years of courting and commitment, it wouldn’t be easy to quit you. And it wasn’t.
I sometimes wonder who replaced me. Is she good and honest? Does she work hard? Too hard? Does she treat you well? Does she treat herself well? Will she stick with you through thick and thin? Will she wait out the tough times and see if you will ask her to commit? And, someday, if you ask her that very important question, if you ask her to be your partner, will she say I do?
Sometimes I wonder what things would be like if I never left. Would we still be together? Or would I have found another reason to walk away? Or would you, faced with the grim reality of a rabid recession, have let me go? If I had stayed and you had let me, would we be happy? Or, would things be the same as they were back then when I put on a good face with my good suit and we floated through long days together, graceful pretenders?
This is tough to admit, but sometimes, late at night, I lie in bed and think of you and wonder whether you would take me back. If I begged and pleaded and tried harder this time? But then I wake up in the morning and I’m relieved and pleased with the way things are. I am exactly where I should be. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t miss you sometimes and think about you and talk about our time together. Even though our relationship was relatively brief, a mere blip on that résumé radar, for me it was very real. In some small, but significant way, you made me who I am.
So, try as I might, I will not forget you. The things you showed me about myself and life and the enigma of happiness. About real risk and real reward.
Maybe we will meet again one day. Or maybe we won’t. Only time will tell.
Insecurely yours,
Aidan
Q & A with Aidan Donnelley Rowley
What inspired this particular story? Is it autobiographical?
Life After Yes was inspired by my admittedly short stint as a litigation associate at a big Manhattan law firm and by my experience as a young New Yorker in the aftermath of 9/11. My experience at the firm was perfectly pleasant. Contrary to conventional wisdom, life as a BigLaw attorney was (for me) not miserable. But it wasn’t happy either. I realized, and quickly, that I was far more interested in the life around me, the stories of colleagues and clients, than I was in the formal practice of law at a corporate firm. I would steal moments here and there and scribble essays. I would spend long stretches of time at my desk staring out the skyscraper window at the stunning views of the city in which I was born and raised. The Friday afternoon after returning from my honeymoon, I looked out that window and decided to jump. To take my very first risk. In that moment, I chose life over law.
Everyone implored me to be prudent and wait, to complete a full two years at the firm. But I didn’t listen. I left, hungry to write a story exploring the virtue (and vice) of prudence in modern society, blissfully ignorant of just what this entailed, full of foolish confidence. I left my firm on a Friday and started Life After Yes the following Monday.
The story is fictional. Is it laced with some more superficial autobiographical elements? Absolutely. For instance, it takes place on the Upper West Side of Manhattan where I grew up and where I still live today. There are undoubtedly pieces of me and my life scattered throughout the story. I would say that I am present in each and every one of the major characters. But no individual character is based on me or on any person I know. Translation: I am not Quinn. Quinn is not me. And I hate to break it to you, whoever you are, but you are not a character in my book!
You acknowledge that starting a novel with a dream is clichéd and yet you start your novel with a dream. Why? What is the meaning of clichés in Quinn’s story?
I felt strongly about starting my novel with Quinn’s dream. In many ways, all of Quinn’s hopes and fears and doubts about love and life and commitment are wrapped up in that one dream. Most of the story’s significant events and questions are foreshadowed in the dream. I think dreams—actual and metaphorical—are hugely important in life. Our dreams say so much about who we are and what we want.
As a society and as a literary subculture, I think we are far too obsessed with originality. As people, we seek and strive to be different, to be unique. We act up, we rebel, we do anything so as not to be predictable. And yet, in our very predictable rebellions, we are utterly predictable. Quinn, the prototypical educated and privileged and disillusioned YUPPIE, is a cliché. We are all clichés. As writers, we are also preoccupied with standing out and apart, with being seen and celebrated as original. We are told to avoid clichés like the plague; that they have no place in literature and compelling stories. I don’t agree. I think that clichés exist for a reason. I think they are part of who we are. Not every word or sentence or idea is fresh. That is okay. That is real.
You started writing Life After Yes shortly after you left your job at the law firm, but Quinn doesn’t leave. Or does she?
The final scene of the book is intentionally gray, purpose fully ambiguous. Quinn is alone in a fishing boat away from it all—her childhood, her hometown, her profession, her man. Out there on the lake she loves, she is free to ask questions and let them echo. She is free to embrace the contradictions and doubts within. She basks in the glow of autumn sun and a bright, but uncertain, future.
There are numerous BlackBerry references throughout Life After Yes. Do you think our society has become technology obsessed? Do you think technology is getting in the way of “real communication”?
The multilayered theme of blackberries—the man-made technology and the natural fruit—is significant in the book. I do think our society is growing more and more obsessed with, and dependent upon, tools of technology, and I wanted to capture this complex and evolving preoccupation in
the pages of Life After Yes. More specifically, I wanted to highlight the role of the BlackBerry in the life of young professionals. In corporate contexts, BlackBerrys often become virtual leashes and impediments on freedom. I also find it fascinating that so many of the preeminent devices in our contemporary society are presumably named to conjure natural goodies—Apple, Mac, BlackBerry, iPod, Twitter. For me, this raises interesting philosophical and practical questions about what “natural” ultimately means.
In my humble estimation, technology is a blessing and a curse. Taken too far (and what’s too far? I don’t pretend to know.) technology can problematically threaten more traditional human communication. Screens should never replace smiles and spoken words. A tweet will never hold a candle to a hug or a handshake. But I do believe, and deeply, that technology will continue to have some genuinely positive effects on our culture and society. We have already seen the myriad ways in which technology can transcend geographical and interpersonal distance and enhance communication and learning. Ultimately, I think the concept of “real communication” is shifting as we speak.
The question of technology is also present in Life After Yes as a means to explore and evince the generational divide between Quinn and her parents. Quinn’s parents, and particularly her late father, did not see the appeal of emerging technologies, but technology is a meaningful part of the identity of the BlackBerry generation of which Quinn is part.
Why did you give your protagonist two very different names? Why did you make her angst over her name such a significant thread of the story?
First, Prudence. Life After Yes is, among other things, a commentary on the virtue (and vice) of prudence in our modern world, on how it is often overvalued at the expense of happiness and love and passion. As such, Prudence was the perfect name for my protagonist. Also, I loved the idea of Quinn’s parents being rabid Beatles’ fans. The lyrics of “Dear Prudence” are exception ally meaningful to Quinn’s story and character. This song, which was once her lullaby in many ways, becomes her theme song.
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