You know that smart girl in high school that you admired because she seemed to have it all together? She edited the school newspaper and got into Brown and played ice hockey on the first women’s college team in America. Then she married this hunky, smart guy who was an academic dean and a notorious rugby player and they lived by the beach with their adorable children and a slew of friendly dogs. Can’t you feel the envy burning in your gut?
Yeah. For me that girl was Anne.
Then there was the way you sort of swooned when you first read her writing, which was honest, authentic, and profound, with not an apostrophe out of place nor an Oxford comma missing. When we became writing partners at the Brown alumni magazine, we would talk and laugh for hours—about our work, yes, but also books, movies, politics, writing, religion, family, romance, life. She taught me the difference between that and which, how to appreciate R&B, and how to enjoy ourselves while being ridiculous.
As I knew Anne better, I also observed the way she struggled with the mess of the human condition as we all do. She wasn’t living a fairy-tale life, but a real one full of good moments—and personal challenges like phobias, depression, years-long infertility, and a painful awareness of the Mom-critic embedded in her head. We were real with each other, and that was important.
Our friendship has endured for decades—not always smoothly, but we’re still standing and making each other laugh and think. And now we have the immense pleasure of writing together again.
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