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Acknowledgments

Gratitude goes to the many who helped steer me toward writing The Memoir and the Memoirist. Those from my groups (some of whose words and stories appear in these pages): Kay Sanger, Joan Mangan, Ollie McNamara, Paul Havermale, Sheila Fisher, Tami Dumai, Sue Norberg, Steve Montgomery, Linda Hutchinson, Patrick McMahon, Felicia Castro, Stephen Gallup, Chi Varnado, Allan Rudick, Dolores Forsythe, Julie Meola, Deborah Johnson, Wendy Gelernter, Marcia Aguiniga, Susan Stocker, Anita Trevino, and Kim Harlow (I have changed a few names in the text where necessary). Those who commented on the manuscript or listened to my ideas: John Christianson, Marc Lampe, Nancy Cary, Roger Aplon, and Judy Reeves. My sons, Jeremy Vincent Larson and Blake Ellington Larson, and my brother, Jeff, none of whom asked to have a memoirist in the family and all of whom have been gracious about my proclivity to write about our relationships. I owe thanks to Judith Moore, who died of cancer while I was finishing this book. Judith, the author of a stunning memoir, Fat Girl: A True Story, was my editor at the San Diego Reader, for which I’ve written narrative nonfiction the last eight years. Not only did she keep me working constantly on new stories these past eight years, but she also enthusiastically supported what I wrote, both memoir and journalism. She was my William Maxwell, on the phone and via e-mail, and she never knew how much her intelligence and love of good writing influenced me. I wish I had told her. Finally, I appreciate the enthusiasm and skill of the staff at Swallow Press/Ohio University Press: marketing manager Jean Cunningham, project editor John Morris, and director David Sanders.

To my second-half life-partner, Suzanna Neal, I want to say that the greatest gift you’ve given me is criticism with love. Simply by asking, What are you trying to say? Suzanna showed me where to make the crucial cuts and where to put the emphasis. How much her intelligence and love of good writing have influenced me. Suzanna has been thrilled by my successes and understood my failures as a writer. In those moments I treasure her expression: when she puts her arms around me, raises herself onto her toes, and pulls me close to her out of desire and possession. “At the end of my life,” writes Rumi, “with just one breath / left, if you come then, I’ll sit up and sing.”