by Laurie Colwin
from the April 17, 2023 issue of The New Yorker

I first encountered Laurie Colwin a couple of years ago when I first read her novel Happy All the Time. I loved it. Colwin sadly died in 1992 when she was only 48. She first submitted a story to The New Yorker all the way back in 1969, and she published several stories in the magazine up to her death. I was surprised — though delighted — to find her in the magazine this week!

It turns out that when much of her work was republished in 2021 (the same way I first came upon it), Lauren LeBlanc wrote an article about her for The Los Angeles Times. In it, she talked to Colwin’s editor, Vicky Wilson, who spoke about the manuscript Colwin was working on when she died. Colwin’s grown child, R.F. Jurjevics, went searching the storage units and finally uncovered it. They’re the interviewee in the magazine this week here.

I’m not sure what state the story is in, but I’m very excited to have it. Here is how it begins:

This is not an account of a love affair, and it is not the story of a religious conversion, although elements of both pertain. Of course, in life, which is full of surprises, it is hard to know what anything is.

I look forward to sitting down with the story! Please feel welcome to leave your thoughts below!

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