Last summer a handful of people who follow the whims of publishing were dining elegantly at the proper end of Long Island and speculating whimsically on coming trends in the novel biz. Recognizing that existential Angst, oppression of minority groups, uncloseting of homosexuals, feminism, s & m, and incest were beginning to pall, the group searched for a new thrill. Goodness! they exclaimed, and conjured up a novel at the climax of which a couple sat holding hands and beaming as their child graduated from an excellent college, with distinction.

Sure enough, the next Sunday's Times Book Review carried a two-page ad for a novel whose theme, hushedly announced, was Friendship. But the new movement didn't peak until Laurie Colwin's Happy All the Time appeared, shining cheerily even through the murk of the newspaper strike. The novel tells about two perfectly normal young men, friends but straight, who meet, woo, and wed perfectly normal young women, one of whom produces a perfectly perfect baby…. Everyone here really is happy all the time. Luckily for Colwin and the story, however, they don't realize it, and they spend most of the novel engaging in low-level kvetching. Colwin's skill at making this whining witty, her creation of young women whom—who?—most young women would want to be, and her clear, straightforward prose style make a comic success out of this unpromisingly uplifting material. (p. 231)