In Memoriam: Sarah Wernick

A young publisher wouldn’t accept any of Sarah Wernick’s suggested titles, we are told by one of Sarah’s writer friends at Sarah’s memorial celebration. The book was about women’s health and fitness. “We need a sexier title,” the editor insisted. Then later in response to further options she offered him, “No, we need something hotter.” After exasperation replaced her usual equanimity, Sarah asked him, “How about ‘Fuck Yourself Thin!’”

Sarah Wernick – New York Times best-selling writer, publishing guru, activist in writers’ groups, mentor to innumerable writers and a dear friend of mine – died November 6, 2007. Yesterday her husband Willie hosted a memorial celebration that was worthy of her – full of articulate, loving words as only a group of writers can produce; beautiful music from Sarah’s family; and songs from a Workman’s Circle Yiddish choir, “A Besere Velt.”

I went from being a volunteer at Sarah’s standing-room-only fund-raising seminars for our National Writers Union local to being her fitness instructor when she joined my senior exercise group. Here was one of the country’s most successful health writers sweating it out obediently in my class.

One day she offered me an irresistible barter: If I’d give Willie private fitness instructions, she – the goddess of book proposals – would work with me on the proposal for my book about people over 50 and their involvement in kinky and alternative sexualities.

Even though sweet Willie dumped me after just a few sessions, Sarah and I continued meeting weekly. She was never satisfied. “Revision is like peeling an onion,” she told me. “You can keep going a long time and still find something more to peel.” It didn’t matter how kinky the topic, how edgy the material, Sarah’s formidable smarts and vacuum-cleaner mind prevented her from ever being shocked or put off. Her favorite tip from my chapter on sex accessories was:

Ensure there are side tables on both sides of the bed so that each partner can easily access their bifocals.

Her insistence on excellence and her Renaissance-wide curiosity were themes among all the writers who spoke yesterday. When we worked with her, she was like scaffolding around our craft – she could reach into every remnant of awkwardness in a phrase or fuzziness in an idea.

I was thrilled the first time Sarah invited me to a holiday dinner where I got to meet her family and her best friends. Later, I was honored when she wanted my comments on her labor of love – a children’s book she had been working on for years.

One day in 2005 she told me that she wouldn’t be coming to class anymore. She had been diagnosed with cancer. When possible, we continued our weekly meetings, not for work, not for mentorship, just for, as she called it, “human contact.” She felt I was a good visitor to sick people, but it wasn’t that - for me it was just a chance to be with her because by then I loved Sarah very much.

The weirdest part, on a personal level, was that Sarah and my mother were diagnosed with the same cancer simultaneously. They had operations the same day, started chemo the same day and then radiotherapy the same week. I had to write down both of their appointment schedules to hold off confusion. Although I did my duty, I never cared much for my mother, who died in July. In contrast, with Sarah I was devastated by each new negative development.

At the memorial, everyone had their own stories of how Sarah’s half-full take on the world was so not-Pollyannish. Digging deep into her imagination, she found the kinkiness in her horrid treatments, for my entertainment. She asked me to consult my dominant lover about alternatives to the wretchedly uncomfortable restraints they kept her in for her radiotherapy, so that she could help the hospital improve their service.

We were unlikely friends – she was a laid-back intellectual, had an unflappable nature and was married to the same great guy she had first noticed in high school. (I’m a superficial slut who is easily excitable.) And that far from sums up our differences: she was also a successful writer by any standards you want to set.

The memorial celebration turned into many hours of weeping laughter. Willie reminded us of how she called their apartment building’s vacuum hook-up “central suck.” One group of people turned out to be members of one of the very first Internet user groups ever – long before the Web or email. Sarah was the only woman among them, and from their anecdotes, clearly a major force. She was fearless because she knew how to research and to learn.

She also knew the art of friendship and of making every friend feel she or he was her particular friend. I’m proud to have been one of Sarah’s particular friends. And I’m not surprised that Willie ended the memorial with a splendid and delicious spread – Sarah was well-known for her kitchen. I’m nervous about how well I’m going to do without the luxury of her counsel and sustenance.

For a taste of her smarts, check out her valuable articles for writers on Sarah’s website. It suits everything I know about Sarah to continue, even after death, to help other writers.

Here you’ll find a lovely piece from another of Sarah’s mentees.

Click here for the Boston Globe’s obituary of Sarah Wernick.

Comments

[Joan Price]

I adored Sarah Wernick and your beautiful post here moved me deeply. Sarah was always generous with her professional advice, and her wonderful spirit drew others to her -- friends, colleagues, strangers.

I didn't know she was ill until I learned she had died. Such a shock. Such a loss.

Thank you for sharing your memories here.

Joan

[Sally Olds]

Sue, I loved your post -- it captured Sarah so well. I feel so privileged to have been one of her many particular friends who benefited from her sage advice, her incomparable sense of humor, and her bountiful generosity! Thank you for writing this. Sally

[Sue]

Sally and Joan,
I appreciate that both of you put your comments right here on the blog. A slew of Sarah-lovers wrote me, but privately via email. I think it's great to have evidence of how widely she was loved, right here on the blog. Thanks again.
Sue

[Fawn Fitter]

I have missed Sarah ever since I left Boston. She was my mentor and my friend, and I loved her. And she made me laugh -- "Fuck Yourself Thin" was quintessential Sarah!

Thank you so much for writing this so I could feel, just for a second, as if I had made it to the memorial. Damn, I miss her.

-Fawn

[Sue]

Thanks Fawn, for writing. I've had such warm exchanges over this piece on Sarah that I'm just beginning to come to understand the width and depth of her friendship world.
Sue