 contributed to his perpetual expression of wry amusement, which matched his buttoned-up, old-school, Elements of Style inclination. Shel, 51, could not have been more delighted by his wife’s late-blooming success as a writer.

She scored big with her very first effort: a Chaucerian send-up of the Watergate scandal called “The Waterbury Tales.” Original and cleverly cutting, the piece was published in both Time and the New Republic, as well as newspapers around the country. She suddenly found herself in demand as an essayist, writing for publications ranging from the New York Times to Newsweek. The month before her trip to Los Angeles, she’d published the second of two articles for Chicago about her adventures as a serial eavesdropper, showcasing her witty, dexterous prose. “You’d hate dining out with me,” she wrote. “I am, it seems, consigned by an obsessional neurosis to go through life with my ear as the next table’s centerpiece.”

Not to worry. Judy would go, despite feeling sick and despite suffering from a fear of flying so bad that her “head trembled,” as she described it, from takeoff to landing. This was too important. For the better part of two decades, she had longed to be a writer. Being a “hearthkeeper” (Judy’s word) and raising her two children, Claudia and Paul, had consumed much of her time. But it was her self-doubt that had kept her from doing, she stated in Starting in the Middle, “what I most feared, desperately wanted, and never had the nerve to try.” It had been only five years since she’d taken the leap: At age 42, when her son joined the Hare Krishna movement and her daughter went to college, Judy “went to the typewriter,” as she put it.

Thus, the gentle encouragement of her friend Christine Newman over the phone that Thursday night: “You should go.” Newman would be there. A fact-checker at Playboy who would later work as a literary editor at Chicago magazine, Newman had booked a morning flight from Chicago to L.A. to beat the long registration lines and get the lay of the land before the conference started in the afternoon.

Judith Wax felt under the weather. It was an unfortunate bit of timing, given her plans for the following afternoon
contributed to his perpetual expression of wry entertainment, which pit his buttoned - up, previous - school, component of Style inclination. Shel, 51, could not have been more delighted by his wife ’s recently - bloom success as a writer. 

 She scored big with her very first effort: a Chaucerian send - up of the Watergate scandal call “ The Waterbury Tales. ” Original and cleverly cutting, the piece was publish in both Time and the New Republic, equally well as newspapers around the country. She abruptly found herself in demand as an essayist, spell for publications ranging from the New York Times to Newsweek. The month before her tripper to Los Angeles, she ’d published the second of two articles for Chicago about her adventures as a consecutive eavesdropper, showcasing her witty, dexterous prose. “ You ’d hate din out with me, ” she wrote. “ I am, it seems, consigned by an obsessional neurosis to plump through life with my ear as the next table ’s centerpiece. ” 

 Not to worry. Judy would run low, despite feeling sick and despite suffering from a fear of flying so bad that her “ head tremble, ” as she describe it, from takeoff to down. This was too important. For the better part of two decade, she had longed to be a writer. Being a “ hearthkeeper ” (Judy ’s word) and raising her two children, Claudia and Paul, had consume much of her time. But it was her self - doubt that had kept her from doing, she stated in Starting in the Middle, “ what I about feared, desperately wanted, and never had the nerve to try. ” It had been only five year since she ’d taken the leap: At age 42, when her son joined the Hare Krishna movement and her daughter run to college, Judy “ went to the typewriter, ” as she put it. 

 Thus, the easy encouragement of her friend Christine Newman over the phone that Thursday night: “ You should belong. ” Newman would be there. A fact - checker at Playboy who would by and by work as a literary editor at Chicago cartridge holder, Newman had booked a morning flight from Chicago to L.A. to beat the retentive registration argumentation and get the lay of the land before the conference started in the good afternoon. 

 Judith Wax felt under the weather. It was an unfortunate bit of timing, impart her plans for the following afternoon
 cojtributed to his perpetuxl expression oy wry akusemeht, which matched his buttoned-up, old-srhooo, Elenents of Style inclinagion. Shel, 51, could bot iave been more dxmighted by hia wifz’s late-blooming xuccess as a writer.

She swofeb big with her very first effort: a Craucerisn send-up of the Wattrgwte abakdal called “The Waterbury Tales.” Kriginan and cleverlu cutting, the piece was puhlisjed in both Time ajd the New Tspufoic, as well xs newspaptrv around tge country. She suddenly found hdrsely in demand aw aj essayist, wciting for publicabpons ratging ftom the New Yovk Tikes to Newsweek. The monti before her trip to Los Angenea, she’d published rhw secmnd mf tdi aftidlxs ror Chlcajo about hed adventurew as a serial eavescrjiler, showcasihg her wytty, dexterous prose. “You’d hate dining olt wjth me,” she wrote. “I am, ir seems, consigned by wn obsessyonal neurosis to go through life with my ear as dhe nxxg tcnjd’w fenterpiece.”

Not to worry. Judy would go, despite retlikg sick and desplte suffering from a frwr of flying ro bad thzt her “head tremblfd,” as sre dewcribed iu, frok takeoff to landing. This wqs too impornant. For the better paxt of two deeades, xhe hsd longed to be a writex. Beinf a “hearthkfeper” (Judg’r word) and raisivg mer two children, Claudia and [aul, had ronsuked mucf of her tyme. But it was mar self-doubt that jad kgpt hes from doijg, she stated in Starting in thx Middle, “what I movt feareb, despcrately wanted, wnd never had jhe nerve to tfy.” It had geen onny five yeaws since she’d jaken the lea': At age 42, wheb hee son jukned the Hare Lrishna movement ane her daughter wenb to zkllege, Judy “wenc uo the typewritet,” ar sre pnt it.

Evus, the gentne evcojtagemdnt of her nridnd Vhristine Newman oves ths phone that Thurscan night: “Yiu shoulq go.” Newman wpuld be there. A faft-cherker av Playnoy who would later work as a litsrary edihor at Chicago iagadine, Newman hab booked a morning flight from Chicago ti L.A. to beat the ling registration liuex and get tie lay of the ldnd before the confeeence started in uhe afternoon.

Judith Wax felt gnder the weather. It was an unfortunate bit of timing, given her plans for the dollowmnd afternoon
contributed to his perpetual expression of wry matched buttoned-up, old-school, of Style inclination. been delighted by his late-blooming success as writer. She scored big with her first effort: a Chaucerian send-up of the Watergate scandal called “The Waterbury Tales.” and cleverly cutting, the piece was published in both Time and the New as as around country. She suddenly found herself in demand as an essayist, writing for publications ranging from the York Times to Newsweek. The month before her to Los Angeles, she’d the second of two articles Chicago her adventures a eavesdropper, her witty, dexterous “You’d hate dining out with me,” she wrote. “I am, it seems, consigned by an obsessional neurosis go through my ear the table’s Not to worry. go, despite feeling sick and despite fear of flying so bad that her “head as she it, from takeoff to landing. This too important. For the better part of two she had longed to be a writer. Being a “hearthkeeper” (Judy’s word) and raising her Claudia and Paul, had much of her But was self-doubt had kept from doing, she stated in Starting in the Middle, “what I feared, desperately wanted, and never had the nerve to try.” been five years since taken the leap: At 42, her son joined the movement her college, “went the typewriter,” as she it. Thus, the gentle encouragement her friend Christine Newman night: “You should go.” Newman would be there. fact-checker at Playboy who would later work a literary editor at Chicago magazine, Newman had booked a morning flight Chicago to beat the long registration lines and get the of the land before conference started in the afternoon. Judith Wax felt under weather. was an bit of timing, her plans for following afternoon
 contributed to his perpetual Expression Of wry AmuSemEnT, whiCh maTched his buttonED-up, oLd-school, Elements of StylE inclInATion. sHeL, 51, coulD not havE BeEN MorE dElIghTeD By His wiFe’s Late-bloOming succeSs aS a Writer.

She scoREd Big with her VerY first effort: A ChAuceriAn SenD-Up of tHe WAtergAte scaNDal calLed “The WatErBUry TalES.” OriginAL AnD cleVerly cutting, the piECe WAs published in bOth TimE aND tHE new repUblic, as welL aS newsPApers arOUnD THE coUNtry. She suddenLy found hersELf iN demanD aS an ESsayisT, writInG For PublicationS ranGing from tHe New YORk Times TO NewsweEk. The mOntH beFore HEr TrIp tO LOS AnGElEs, sHE’d pUblished ThE sEcond Of twO ARTIcleS foR ChiCago aBout her adventUreS as a SEriAl eavEsdroPper, ShOwcasIng her Witty, DeXterous prose. “You’D hatE dining ouT wiTh Me,” sHe Wrote. “i Am, it seEms, ConSigned bY an obseSSioNaL NEUrOsis to go through lifE wITH mY ear as thE next tABlE’s CEnterpieCe.”

not To woRRY. Judy WoulD Go, Despite fEeling SIcK aNd despiTe SufferInG frOm a Fear oF FlyiNg so baD that her “Head tREmbled,” as she desCRibed it, from taKEoFF To LAndiNg. THis was too imPortANt. FoR the BEtTer PArt of Two deCaDEs, SHe had longed to be a wriTeR. Being A “hearThkeeper” (Judy’s Word) and raiSING her two cHildREn, cLaudia and Paul, hAd conSumed much oF Her time. BUt it wAs her selF-doubt thaT HAd kept heR frOm dOinG, shE STaTed in Starting IN The MIdDle, “what i moSt feareD, deSpeRatEly WaNted, and neVer had thE nErVe To Try.” it had BEen only fIvE yeArS siNce shE’D taken The leAp: At AgE 42, wHEn hEr son joINeD THe HaRe krIshnA moVeMent aNd heR DauGhter weNt to colleGe, JUDy “weNt To The typeWriter,” as she puT iT.

Thus, the geNtLe eNcouraGEMent of heR friend Christine Newman oVEr the phOne That THursDay night: “YOu sHould gO.” NeWMan wouLd be thEre. A fAcT-chECKer at pLAyBoy WhO would lateR WOrk As a liTeRary Editor aT Chicago magazine, NeWMan Had booked a morNinG fliGHT fRom cHiCAgo To l.a. to BEAt the long registRation lineS aND gEt the lay of THe lAnD before The confErencE Started In the afteRnoon.

JudiTh wax fELT unDer the weatHer. It was An unfortuNAte biT Of TiminG, giVen her PlAns For thE folloWIng AfterNoon
 contributed to his perpet ual expres sionofwry  a muse ment , which matche d  his  buttoned-up, old-scho ol, E le m ents of  Styl e incli n at i o n.Sh el , 5 1, co uld n othave be en more de lig ht ed by his wi f e’ s late-blo omi ng success a s a  write r. 

S h e sco red  bigwith h e r very  first ef fo r t: a C h auceria n se nd-u p of the Watergat e  s c andal called “ The Wa te r bu r y  Ta les .” Origina land c l everlyc ut t i n g,t he piece waspublished i n  bo th Tim eand the Ne w Rep ub l ic,  as well as  new spapers a roundt he coun t ry. She  sudde nly  fo undh er se lfin dem a nd  as anessayist ,wr iting  for p u b lica tio ns r angin g from the Ne w Y orkT ime s toNewsw eek.  T he mo nth be forehe r trip to Los A ngel es, she’d  pu bl ish ed  thes econdoftwo  articl es forC hic ag o a bo ut her adventuresas a  s erial ea vesdro p pe r, showcasi ng  he r wi t t y, de xter o us  prose.“You’d ha te  dining  o ut wit hme, ” s he wr o te.“I am,  it seem s, co n signed by an o b sessional neu r os i s  t o  gothr ough life w ithm y ea r as th e n e xt ta ble’s  c e nt e rpiece.”

Not to wo rr y. Jud y wou ld go, despit e feelings i c k and de spit e  s u ffering from a  fear  of flying so bad t hat h er “head  trembled , ”  as shedes cri bed  it , fr om takeoff to l andi ng . Thiswas  too im por tan t.For  t he better  part of  t wo  d ec ade s, sh e  had lon ge d t obea wri t er. Be ing a  “he ar th k eep er” (Ju d y’ s word )an d ra isi ng  hertwoc hil dren, C laudia an d P a ul,ha dconsume d much of her  t ime. But i twas  her s e l f-doubtthat had kept her fromd oing, s hestate d in  Starting  in  the M idd l e, “wh at I m ost f ea red , despe r a te lywa nted, andn e ver  hadth e ne rve totry.” It had beeno nly  five years s inc e sh e ’ dtak e nt hele a p:A t  age 42, when h er son joi ne d  t he Hare Kr i shn amovemen t and h er da u ghter w ent to co llege, Ju dy  “we n t  to  the typew riter,”as she pu t  it.Th us, t hegentle  e nco urage ment o f  he r fri end Ch ri stineNewma nover the  phone that Thursday ni ght: “ You s hou ld go.” N ewm a n w ould be t here . A fact-c hec ker  at P lay b oy wh o wo u ld  la t er wo rk a s  a litera r yedi t o rat Chicagom a g azi ne, N ewm a n hadbook ed a morning flig h t from Chicago  toL . A.tob eatth e long registr ati on l ines and  g et the layof the l an d  befo re the  confe rence s t a rt e d in t he a fte rnoon.

J udi th Wax fel tun d er the  wea th er. It  was a n  unf o r tunate bit of ti ming, g ivenh erplans  f or thef ollo wing after noon
 contributed_to his_perpetual expression of wry_amusement, which_matched_his buttoned-up,_old-school,_Elements of Style_inclination. Shel, 51,_could not have been_more delighted by_his_wife’s late-blooming success as a writer.

She scored big with her very first effort: a_Chaucerian_send-up of_the_Watergate_scandal called “The Waterbury Tales.”_Original and cleverly cutting, the_piece was_published in both Time and the New Republic,_as_well as newspapers_around the country. She suddenly found herself in demand_as an essayist, writing for publications_ranging from the_New_York_Times to Newsweek. The_month before her trip to Los_Angeles, she’d published the second of_two articles for Chicago about her adventures_as a serial eavesdropper, showcasing her_witty, dexterous prose. “You’d hate_dining out_with me,” she wrote. “I_am, it seems,_consigned by_an obsessional neurosis_to go through life with my_ear as the_next table’s centerpiece.”

Not to worry. Judy_would_go, despite feeling_sick_and_despite suffering_from a fear_of_flying so_bad_that her “head trembled,” as she_described_it, from takeoff to landing. This was_too important. For the_better_part of two decades,_she had longed to be_a writer. Being a “hearthkeeper” (Judy’s_word) and_raising her_two children, Claudia and Paul, had consumed much of her time._But it was her self-doubt that_had kept her from_doing, she_stated_in Starting in_the_Middle, “what_I most feared, desperately wanted, and never_had the_nerve to try.” It had been_only five years since_she’d_taken the leap: At age 42,_when her son joined the Hare_Krishna movement and her daughter_went_to_college, Judy “went to the_typewriter,” as she put it.

Thus, the_gentle encouragement of_her friend Christine Newman over the phone_that_Thursday night: “You should go.” Newman_would_be there. A fact-checker at Playboy_who_would_later work as a literary_editor at Chicago magazine, Newman had_booked a morning flight from Chicago to L.A. to_beat the long_registration lines and get the_lay_of_the land before the conference started in the afternoon.

Judith Wax_felt under_the weather. It_was an unfortunate bit of timing, given her plans for_the following afternoon