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In the months leading up to the publication of my first collection of stories, I was in a fever of excitement. Finally, people will read my work! My friends will read it. The book came out and I had a publication bash given by a wonderful cousin; my goddaughter oversaw the selling of autographed books and everybody at the party bought one. It was everything I had imagined! I was delighted.
A week later, I was perusing the stacks of used books at the Housing Works Bookstore in New York City. There was my book, in perfect condition, squeezed between Marc and Markson. I had a heart-thumping moment of shock. I slid it out and opened it to the title page. There was my signature along with the name of the “friend” who had bought the book at my party. That she hadn’t read it was disappointing enough, but that she couldn’t even bring herself to keep it was a knife in my heart.
A friend is only truly a friend if they support your work, and supporting it means reading it, right? Not so fast. If I hung onto that opinion, I’d have far fewer friends and all of them would be fellow writers. And yet, when I find out a friend hasn’t read any of my books, I am always a little shocked: I can’t help but believe not being interested in my work means they aren’t interested in me. But I am also aware that there are a few mitigating reasons why a friend hasn’t read my work.