In his fabulous book, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King says that ‘every novelist has a single ideal reader’ in mind when they’re working on a story. His ideal reader, he reveals to us, is his wife, Tabitha. She is his first reader, his sounding board. It is her opinion that matters to him. When he writes something funny, it is the thought of making her laugh that motivates him. Sample this passage from the book:
We drove north to Virginia the following day, and it was during this drive that Tabby read my story. There are some funny parts in it - at least I thought so - and I kept peeking over at her to see if she was chuckling (or at least smiling). I didnt think she’d notice, but of course she did. On my eight or ninth peek (I guess it could have been my fifteenth), she looked up and snappped: ‘Pay attention to your driving before you crack us up, will you? Stop being so goddamn needy!’
I possess none of Mr. King’s talent and all of his neediness.
Since I started this newsletter a couple of years ago, my wife has read the first draft of every issue - usually, with me hovering around her with all the guile and grace of a particularly determined mosquito. When she laughs where I expect her to laugh, all is well with the world. When she doesn’t, I put my legal skills to use and begin the cross-examination.
‘Did you read that bit?’
‘You did? But I didn’t see you laugh. Read it again?’
‘No, that’s a pity laugh. Don’t give me a pity laugh. The writing is horrible, isn’t it? Should I just delete the whole thing?’
‘Okay, sorry, sorry. I’ll let you read the rest of it in peace.’
‘…… So, have you reached that other bit?’
This is the first time she will read an issue after it has been published. For the sake of our marriage, and, frankly, common courtesy, it seemed prudent to give her a break from her editorial-cum-first-reader duties. Besides, I could hardly have shown her the draft of an issue that is being published on her birthday and is about, well, her. It would’ve ruined the surprise somewhat.
When I was planning this issue, I briefly toyed with the idea of composing a poem. Better men than me have succumbed to the urge to rhyme, when eulogising their wives and partners-in-crime. But I desisted. None of you deserve such a ghastly fate. Instead, I thought, why not write about the myriad ways in which she has enriched the lives of those of us who know her; the numerous times when she has opened our minds to hitherto unknown ideas and concepts. Such as, to cite just one example, the notion of the ‘birthday week’.
Perhaps some of you are rolling your eyes at this. ‘What is so revelatory about the birthday week’, you may be muttering to yourselves, ‘obviously, it is the week leading up to a birthday.’ Ah, my innocent readers. I shall not mock you for I, too, was once part of your ignorant ranks. The truth is that we cannot claim to know when the ‘birthday week’ begins, or indeed, when it ends. The birthday week can commence at any time - ten days, a fortnight - prior to the birthday and questioning its arrival is an act of folly. It is, after all, a time of joyous celebration; not of nitpicking and pedantic arguments about the meaning of the word ‘week’. Do not, also, ever assume that the ‘birthday week’ concludes on the birthday - it does not, especially when the birthday is followed by a weekend.
The remarkable elasticity of the ‘birthday week’ is not the only lesson I’ve received from my wife. I have learnt it is possible to read Harry Potter 3,627 times and watch The Holiday 1,573 times, and enjoy each reading/ viewing with undiminished enthusiasm1. I have learnt that a person with no formal training in medicine can, nonetheless, possess an astonishing amount of knowledge about obscure diseases and the chemical composition of pharmaceutical drugs. I have learnt that for the true acolytes of reality TV, there is no detail about the life of the Kardashians that is deemed superfluous. And I have found that eidetic memory is not a fictional trope but very much a reality - and that seeing your wife exhibit such eerie powers of recollection is equal parts creepy and awe-inspiring.
I have discovered, to my dismay, that sparkling wit and a peerless sense of humour need not always come at the cost of social ineptness and neurotic tendencies. I have learnt that professional success does not have to become the entirety of one’s personality. (If you’ve been around as many lawyers as I have, you will understand why this feels refreshing.) I have learnt that the most unassuming of people can often draw on the most uncommon reserves of strength, determination and generosity. I have learnt that even the best minds can - infuriatingly, unaccountably - fall prey to bizarre conspiracy theories. But most importantly, I have realized that sharing your life with someone can, if you’re lucky, be a privilege.
As the years keep rolling by and we continue to age backwards - another learning: once you hit your thirties, you age backwards until settling permanently in the early twenties; my wife just re-entered the mid-twenties - I suspect there will be more learnings along the way. I hereby pledge, dear reader, to keep meticulous account of the lessons my wife imparts to me and share that wisdom with you.
But for now, may I invite you to join me in wishing her: Happy Birthday!
I am not kidding about the Harry Potter thing. During a Potter-inspired walking tour in Edinburgh, she answered nearly every question posed by our tour guide; some, even before he had finished asking the question.
Damn your wife and I will be BFFs! Except for the Kardashian thing, this piece was a list of all of my craziest obsessions 😁 Belated happy birthday to this God damned genius.
Can’t remember how I got here but your substack is cool and your wife is a 20/10 person! 💜