In July, I read a book called Fury. It was a memoir, and the second book that this author wrote. The book was about the author keeping her anger inside and how, after a terrible break-up, she seemed unable to keep it in any longer. I am completely simplifying this book, but that is the gist. One word.


I had a deep, profound reaction to this book. When she talked of her family, it was very similar to my family — how they dealt with conflict, how they reacted to her newly discovered anger, etc. When she talked of her anger, and how she emotionally handled things as a child … very much like me as well. As I read the book, I felt light, empowered, and full of understanding that the way my family handled things was not the right way.

So five minutes after I read the book, I procured her email address, and I jotted down a letter. I thanked her for writing the book. I explained my own struggles with my family, much like her struggles, and detailed a specific example. I explained how I too seemed stalled when it came to dealing with emotions properly. Except, of course, with my new husband. I expressed sympathy for the tragedy she detailed in the memoir, and thanked her again.

Then I sent it, and after a week of checking my inbox, promptly forgot about it.


I love those moments in life when you are having a perfectly ordinary day, with nothing nothing nothing, and then … something.

The author wrote me back. She was lovely, and her email was lovely, and my entire life has been made. Here is the ending:

Thank you again for writing.  I’m so touched by your note and grateful that you felt some connection to Fury.  It was very tough to write, and not a great success in the eyes of my publisher.

All my love and best wishes to you and your new hubby.
Enjoy each other and go easy on yourself,
K x


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