Courtney Sullivan / Features / Untitled Books

"The Crazy Dog People at off-leash hours make us look normal. Their dogs have names like Noam Chompsky. One woman claims that her poodle is bilingual, and speaks to him in both English and Spanish."

Photograph: © Michael Lionstar

Courtney Sullivan

Courtney Sullivan is the author and the New York Times bestselling novel Commencement, and her writing has appeared in the New York Times Book Review. Maine is her latest novel. She lives in Brooklyn and in the week before Christmas found herself proposed to and enjoyed being mistaken for a truant.

Sunday, December 18

This past Tuesday, my boyfriend Kevin proposed. It was a wonderfully romantic evening, complete with champagne, excited phone calls to our parents, a fancy dinner out, and a long walk on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, which overlooks the Brooklyn Bridge and all of Manhattan beyond.

Twenty-four hours later, we both had the flu.

We had already planned to head to Boston, where my family lives, on Saturday. We had collected about a hundred gifts from friends for a local shelter's holiday toy drive, and needed to sort them out and drop them off. Kevin had booked us into a hotel in downtown Boston for Sunday night as a way to continue the engagement celebration. Although we were still feeling lousy, we decided to stick with our plan. We arrived at my parents' house last night, getting a flat tire in the rain along the way.

This morning, we brought our sixty-pound hound/retriever mix Landon to an incredibly upscale boarding facility, with a large green Astroturf field and a swimming pool in the shape of a bone, where we paid for him to have a private room with a Skype connection and a few extras, including a cheese and bacon treat which smelled so delicious that I myself might consider eating if there was nothing good in the cupboards. We've never left him anywhere before. Perhaps this is a good time to mention that we are Crazy Dog People. I used to think Crazy Dog People were in desperate need of a hobby and/or children, but now I am one of them and there's not much I can do about it.

Tonight, too sick to go anywhere, we lie in a beautiful bed in a beautiful hotel room in Boston. We sniffle, cough on each other, order tea and chicken soup from room service, watch Downton Abbey on TV and obsessively monitor our dog on Skype.

Monday

Still unable to breathe through our noses, we grab an early lunch on Newbury Street, and head to pick up the dog, who seems only slightly scarred for life. On the drive back to New York, we listen to Tina Fey's Bossypants on CD, which we agree is pretty terrific. We discuss the fact that neither of us likes the word fiancé. It seems so showy and somehow transitional. It begs for a response. Saying "this is my boyfriend," or "this is my wife," usually gets a reply of, "Oh hey, nice to meet you," while saying, "this is my fiancé," seems to ask for something like, "Oh my gosh, how did he propose? When are you getting married? How many bridesmaids will you have?" And so on.

All of this is part of a new novel I'm writing about marriage and the diamond industry over the last century, so I am interested for reasons both personal and professional. (Though I swear I didn't get engaged just for research.)

Tuesday

Once you're a published author, blurbs become a big part of your life. Some authors flat out refuse to give them, but I try to do as many as I can. When my first novel, Commencement, was published in the States, writers I had never met were incredibly generous with their time, and I feel it's only right for me to do the same.

Sometimes you get asked to blurb something that's not particularly good, but you blurb it anyway because the editor once did you a favor, or the author is your cousin's girlfriend's cubicle-mate, or you met him at a party once and you're just too chicken to say no. Today, I have the pleasure of reading the manuscript of a first novel that is really and truly great. It's so enjoyable that I feel kind of guilty for lying in bed reading all afternoon. But then I remind myself that it's for work. I brew some peppermint tea and carry on.

Wednesday

Kevin and I wake early to take the dog to off-leash hours in the park. The Crazy Dog People at off-leash hours make us look normal. Their dogs have names like Noam Chompsky. One woman claims that her poodle is bilingual, and speaks to him in both English and Spanish. We live right at the edge of Park Slope, a neighborhood full of beautiful brownstones and baby carriages, though our particular corner has more of a crumbling-bodega-across-from-a-gas-station vibe.

I'm finally feeling a bit better. And I've just remembered that I was invited here because I'm a writer, so today I will actually write. My third novel is due in September, nine months from now. It's a strange point in the writing process--far from the beginning, yet still relatively far from the end. Some days I think I'm on track, nine months being plenty of time. (Enough to make a human being, so that's something, I'll think to myself as I sink into one more episode of House Hunters.) Other days, I'm panicked, thinking that there will never be enough time to get the story exactly the way I want it.

I work at the Brooklyn Writers Space, an old converted brownstone a few blocks from my apartment. It's wonderful. Everyone there is quite serious. If your cell phone should ring, you may be taken out back and shot. The place is silent, which for me is essential when I'm writing.

Thursday

I take the subway uptown to meet an English journalist who is writing a story about the UK release of my novel Maine. On the way there, I am stopped by a truancy officer in the station and asked, "Sweetheart, how old are you?" In case you missed that last bit: I WAS STOPPED BY A TRUANCY OFFICER. This may be the very best Christmas present that a thirty-year-old woman could possibly receive.

The journalist and I drink tea at a diner and have a great chat about everything from romantic comedies to the Royal Family to Twitter. Afterward, I realize that because of the flu, I haven't really spoken much to anyone all week, and perhaps as a result, I've talked too much.

Hoping I didn't make an ass of myself, I grab a taxi and head to lunch with a friend who's in town from Los Angeles for the holidays.

Friday

I go to the Writers Space for the morning. In the afternoon, with our little car packed full of presents, we drive the 225 miles to Boston for the second time this week. (Yes, I realize this makes very little sense.)

At eight o'clock, I attend the annual Garden Street Girls Christmas party. There are seven Garden Street Girls, including me. We all grew up on the same block, and we're all a year or two apart in age. We're far-flung these days, but we still gather annually to gossip, laugh, share our worries, and talk about boys. It's exactly as it was twenty years ago, only now we're allowed to drink wine.

Saturday

On the morning of Christmas Eve, we take Landon to a dog park by the ocean, where he promptly gets his entire body covered in mud. We make an emergency visit to a place called BYOD (Bring Your Own Dog), where you can give your dog a bath in a big steel tub with oatmeal shampoo. It's great, and designed specifically for suckers like us.

Every Christmas Eve, one of my aunts has a party at her house. Thirty or forty of our relatives convene to eat, drink, and exchange gifts. My extended family is big and boisterous. I remember once, at this particular party, I saw a strange woman come through the door. She was in her fifties, and nicely dressed. One of my uncles kissed her hello and took her coat. A cousin poured her a drink. She was having a great time, laughing and telling stories. It took about twenty minutes before anyone, including her, realized that she was at the wrong house.

I hope every one of you had a wonderful holiday and a great New Year. And if my editor is reading this, I swear I usually spend much more time writing than I did this week.

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Maine by Courtney Sullivan is published by Atlantic Books.
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Thursday, 12 January, 2012

In My week

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Issue 41 / February 2012

"The Crazy Dog People at off-leash hours make us look normal. Their dogs have names like Noam Chompsky. One woman claims that her poodle is bilingual, and speaks to him in both English and Spanish."