The Agony and the Editing

Things got ugly long ago, so why should today be different?

 

You have to pity my dear wife, on a number of levels.

When we first met and I told her I was a writer, Kristina immediately assumed I was a novelist. This would have been terribly glamorous, but it was utterly untrue.

In my defense, she didn’t specifically say “Oh! A novelist!”, so I didn’t have to decide between pretending to be a novelist or fessing up.

Later, it dawned on her that I wasn’t a novelist but rather a work-for-hire hack writing junk mail, but by that time it was too late; it was already love, and she was stuck.

This should be pain enough for one person to bear, but in our subsequent years together, I managed to add layers of it, a sort of pain parfait.

I had grown up in the church, and as a wide-eyed, approval-seeking eldest child, I imagined being a minister was the highest status a person could achieve, so after we married, I became clergy.

This alone was shock enough for a woman who, religiously speaking, grew up as (in her own words) “nothing.” But then it got worse. As a writer of the “write what you know” variety, I frequently referenced Kristina as a character in my sermons.

She was a good sport about it. How could she not be? It’s awkward to complain about a sermon; it’s like criticizing God.

Besides, I almost always referenced her as the wise, good character in the story, in comparison to myself, the foolish or debauched character, since in almost every circumstance, this was the truth.

Kristina also has the misfortune of being a superb editor, so I made her read the first draft of every sermon I wrote. She not only had to face it first, in private; she also had to sit through it again, in a room full of people, at full volume, on Sunday morning.

After some 15 years as clergy, I did the Church a favor by moving on, and Kristina might have breathed a sigh of relief, except that I began writing these mostly-weekly columns as the Outsidah, and for her, this was bound to mean more pain.

Here again, she has read and responded to the first draft of all 552 columns. She has often sagely steered me away from trouble, with gentle comments like “This will get you in trouble with a lot of people,” or “Call our lawyer.”

But sad to say, this is the least of it. Worse for her: in these “Outsidah” columns, she often sees herself.

Of course, she’s a measured, soft-spoken person, so when she speaks about this more recent phase of tribulation, she is predictably even-keeled: “I went from being a sermon illustration to a column illustration.” She doesn’t even bother to roll her eyes. “You marry a writer, this is the risk you take.” She barely shrugs. Maybe it’s PTSD.

Now, however, even after all this, I confess that I have managed to achieve a new low.

I wrote a stage comedy, Things Get Ugly, about a married couple. As always, I gave Kristina the first draft for feedback.

“I can’t even comment on this objectively,” she said. “It’s a transcript of our marriage.”

This is not entirely true. Sure, in this play, one of the spouses is suspiciously like me; the other is very much like Kristina. But the comparison only goes so far, because in the play, one of the spouses turns into a troll.

And even after everything I’ve inflicted on her down through these 40 years, Kristina in real life has never turned even remotely trollish.

So, no, not a transcript of marriage. Not totally, anyway.

Come to the show and see for yourself. It’s funny and fast-paced, with lots of witty banter. And hardly any marriage therapy.

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The world premiere of Doug Brendel’s stage comedy ran May 13-17, 2026, at the Firehouse in Newburyport.