Excerpt from The Sequel by Jean Hanff Korelitz, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Matilda and Wendy weren't just gatekeepers to the kind of success writers everywhere fantasized about; they were capable of actually transforming a person's writing into a better version of itself, which was a real skill, she acknowledged, and something she personally respected. But it had nothing to do with her. She, herself, had never aspired to write so much as a Hallmark card. She, herself, had no intention of ever following Jake down that garden path of literary seduction, with its faint whispers of acclaim. She lacked, thank goodness, any wish for the kind of slavish worship people like her late husband had so obviously craved, and which he had managed, finally, to attract. Those were the people clutching his book as they approached Jake at the signing table after his events with a quaver in their voices, declaring: "You're … my … favorite … novelist…" She couldn't even think of a novelist she would travel across town to listen to. She couldn't think of a novelist whose next work she was actively waiting for, or whose novel she even cared enough about to keep forever, or whose signature she wanted in her copy of their novel.

Well, possibly Marilynne Robinson's in a copy of Housekeeping. But only as a private joke with herself.

Even deeply ungifted novelists had to have a vocation, she supposed. They had to believe they'd be good enough at writing to even try writing, didn't they? Because it wasn't the kind of thing you did on a whim, like making the recipe on the bag of chocolate chips or putting a streak of color in your hair. She was the first to say that she lacked that vocation. She might even admit that she had never had a vocation of any kind, since the only thing she had consistently longed for, since childhood, was to simply be left alone, and she was only now, on the cusp of forty (give or take) and cushioned by her late husband's literary estate, within striking distance of doing just that. At last.

Frankly she'd never have done the thing at all if not for something she had said without thinking, in an interview for that very same literary series in Seattle, her adoptive hometown, when a pushy bitch named Candy asked, in front of a thousand or so people, what she was thinking of doing next.

Next as in: once you are finished with this public mourning of your husband.

Next as in: once you've returned to your own essential pursuit of happiness.

And she had heard herself say that she was thinking about writing a novel of her own.

Immediate approbation. Thunderous applause, with a chorus of You go, girl! and I love it! There was nothing wrong with that, and she didn't hate it, so—not unreasonably—she'd made a habit of reprising the statement in subsequent interviews as she traveled around the country and abroad, representing her no longer available husband and in support of his final novel.

"What are your own plans?" said a professionally sympathetic book blogger at the Miami Book Fair.

"Have you given any thought to what you'll do next?" said an editorial director at Amazon.

"I know it's hard to see beyond the grief you're going through right now," said a frozen-faced woman on morning TV in Cleveland, "but I also know we're all wondering what's next for you."

Actually, I'm thinking about writing a novel …

Everywhere she went it was the same powerful icebreaker: wet eyes, vivid smiles, universal support. How brave she was, to turn her heartbreak into art! To set her own path, unafraid, up that same Parnassus her late husband had scaled! Good for her!

Well, she had nothing against free and free-flowing goodwill. It was much easier to be admired than to be reviled, so why not? And also it helped that no one ever once referenced an earlier mention of this great revelation. I hear you're writing a novel! How is that coming along? When can we expect to see it? Not even: What's it about?

Excerpted from The Sequel by Jean Hanff Korelitz. Copyright © 2024 by Jean Hanff Korelitz. Excerpted by permission of Celadon. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.