You can’t write a darkly comic novel about euthanasia and then act surprised when you receive a letter from a reader. But I CAN act surprised after reading the letter (okay, the email) I received from one woman who recently finished reading ‘The Exit Man.’ I CAN act surprised because I WAS. I AM.
The woman – who, sadly, just lost her mother – didn’t lambast me for writing a subversive and sardonic book about death and dying. She didn’t take out any of her anger or sadness over her mother’s passing on me, as I might have expected… and would have understood. No, instead she THANKED me. Not only that, the letter itself was so wonderfully written – at once touching and a tad twisted. Heartbreaking and humorous. Basically, it was one of the best things I’ve read in a while. (And not JUST because she praised my novel.)
I was so intrigued and moved by the note, I asked the woman who wrote it (her name is Simone) for permission to publish it on my blog. She responded with a prompt and enthusiastic “yes,” and I am very grateful she did. Her words are worthy of being read by more than just a sicko fiction writer like me.
Hi Greg,
I just finished The Exit Man. I really, really enjoyed it. Your ability to pull the rug out from under a reader is fantastic. Wonderful twists and turns – like the ones on Space Mountain, they were deliciously well hidden.
Okay, so I read your section about the author, now here is a little something about the reader…
I lost my mother a little over a month ago. She and I shared a passion for reading. She could read in many different languages. A clever Brit who taught until the ripe old age of 70. She died one day shy of her 71st birthday, but then I knew she wouldn't spoil her actual birthday.
Unlike the folks who needed Eli's help, my mother was 100% independent five months ago. She took a fall down some stairs and broke her neck. A Halloween-loving roller-skater and avid knitter, she became paralyzed from her accident, unable to breathe on her own or move anything but one shoulder. Then, her voice was stripped away from her by a ventilator and, after further complications, a traech tube.
Why am I telling you all of this? I loved your story because it hit home. While my mother's circumstances did not involve disease, she had to fight for the right to do what she wanted with her life. I knew on day 53 that she was unlikely to recover and that we would lose her. She was not coming home. Stuck in a broken body, with her mind still intact, she knew it too. While others played cheerleader and drill sergeant around her, willing her to live, she knew that their definition of living was vastly different from what she was willing to accept. She was not a sit-around kinda girl. Those who knew her well knew she lived life with a shout!
It took her four months to take the reins back from those who refused to accept her fate and continually overrode her wishes. I stayed clear of the battlefield, choosing to spend our time together just as we always had. I knew that eventually she would prevail. She was always a clever girl. I am a champion lip reader now. She asked me on more than one occasion to help her escape. I suppose draping a coat over her and finding a pair of wheels to scoot her out would have been the easy part. What then? Attach her to my Dyson vacuum? We laughed about that.
She was annoyed that she was going to die as a result of such an ordinary accident. I promised her to have a much more dramatic demise. Eaten by an alligator perhaps or getting run over by a bus driver who shares my first name. She liked the former idea.
As the end neared, she asked for a party instead of a funeral. She asked me to tell all in attendance about the importance of Advanced Directives. She had planned on writing hers, but each year she was distracted by some other distraction – a trip, learning Mandarin, teaching a group of welders how to speak English. Something!
A few of my friends thought I should wait to read your book – given the subject matter. I wanted you to know that it was precisely the right book at the right time. A brilliant work of fiction (unless you do own a party store with a shrinking helium inventory) that collided with an important time in my life. I loved your book and my mother would have too. I'm sure she was reading along over my shoulder!
It's funny – I thought about how when it comes to people, we refer to them in the possessive but at the end of the day, one's life has but one owner. I never once questioned my mother's decision to refuse medical treatment. She wanted out. She wanted to be free from forced life support. I will forever admire her for having the courage to go on her own terms. It was a privilege to be her daughter.
As for any other feedback on your novel, I am a giant Mr. Magoo fan and a former criminal defense attorney. You nailed both Magoo and the evidentiary components of your story. The police part at the end was a bit of a stretch, but one that did not detract from a satisfying ending to a great story.
I will look forward to reading more from you!
Best,
Simone
It’s always nice to connect with a reader – especially one who could easily have wanted to punch me in the face. Simone, your mother was an AMAZING woman. I don’t even have to have met her to know that. Your note said it all.
The woman – who, sadly, just lost her mother – didn’t lambast me for writing a subversive and sardonic book about death and dying. She didn’t take out any of her anger or sadness over her mother’s passing on me, as I might have expected… and would have understood. No, instead she THANKED me. Not only that, the letter itself was so wonderfully written – at once touching and a tad twisted. Heartbreaking and humorous. Basically, it was one of the best things I’ve read in a while. (And not JUST because she praised my novel.)
I was so intrigued and moved by the note, I asked the woman who wrote it (her name is Simone) for permission to publish it on my blog. She responded with a prompt and enthusiastic “yes,” and I am very grateful she did. Her words are worthy of being read by more than just a sicko fiction writer like me.
Hi Greg,
I just finished The Exit Man. I really, really enjoyed it. Your ability to pull the rug out from under a reader is fantastic. Wonderful twists and turns – like the ones on Space Mountain, they were deliciously well hidden.
Okay, so I read your section about the author, now here is a little something about the reader…
I lost my mother a little over a month ago. She and I shared a passion for reading. She could read in many different languages. A clever Brit who taught until the ripe old age of 70. She died one day shy of her 71st birthday, but then I knew she wouldn't spoil her actual birthday.
Unlike the folks who needed Eli's help, my mother was 100% independent five months ago. She took a fall down some stairs and broke her neck. A Halloween-loving roller-skater and avid knitter, she became paralyzed from her accident, unable to breathe on her own or move anything but one shoulder. Then, her voice was stripped away from her by a ventilator and, after further complications, a traech tube.
Why am I telling you all of this? I loved your story because it hit home. While my mother's circumstances did not involve disease, she had to fight for the right to do what she wanted with her life. I knew on day 53 that she was unlikely to recover and that we would lose her. She was not coming home. Stuck in a broken body, with her mind still intact, she knew it too. While others played cheerleader and drill sergeant around her, willing her to live, she knew that their definition of living was vastly different from what she was willing to accept. She was not a sit-around kinda girl. Those who knew her well knew she lived life with a shout!
It took her four months to take the reins back from those who refused to accept her fate and continually overrode her wishes. I stayed clear of the battlefield, choosing to spend our time together just as we always had. I knew that eventually she would prevail. She was always a clever girl. I am a champion lip reader now. She asked me on more than one occasion to help her escape. I suppose draping a coat over her and finding a pair of wheels to scoot her out would have been the easy part. What then? Attach her to my Dyson vacuum? We laughed about that.
She was annoyed that she was going to die as a result of such an ordinary accident. I promised her to have a much more dramatic demise. Eaten by an alligator perhaps or getting run over by a bus driver who shares my first name. She liked the former idea.
As the end neared, she asked for a party instead of a funeral. She asked me to tell all in attendance about the importance of Advanced Directives. She had planned on writing hers, but each year she was distracted by some other distraction – a trip, learning Mandarin, teaching a group of welders how to speak English. Something!
A few of my friends thought I should wait to read your book – given the subject matter. I wanted you to know that it was precisely the right book at the right time. A brilliant work of fiction (unless you do own a party store with a shrinking helium inventory) that collided with an important time in my life. I loved your book and my mother would have too. I'm sure she was reading along over my shoulder!
It's funny – I thought about how when it comes to people, we refer to them in the possessive but at the end of the day, one's life has but one owner. I never once questioned my mother's decision to refuse medical treatment. She wanted out. She wanted to be free from forced life support. I will forever admire her for having the courage to go on her own terms. It was a privilege to be her daughter.
As for any other feedback on your novel, I am a giant Mr. Magoo fan and a former criminal defense attorney. You nailed both Magoo and the evidentiary components of your story. The police part at the end was a bit of a stretch, but one that did not detract from a satisfying ending to a great story.
I will look forward to reading more from you!
Best,
Simone
It’s always nice to connect with a reader – especially one who could easily have wanted to punch me in the face. Simone, your mother was an AMAZING woman. I don’t even have to have met her to know that. Your note said it all.
