Best. Of.

The happiest time in my writerly life is the time when I am writing.  The most unnerving is just ahead of a book's release.  Will others read the book as it was meant to be read—ease into its rhythms, find its heart?  Will characters who meant the world to me mean at least a little something to another?

The pre-release of You Are My Only was, for me, a particularly nervous-making time, and there were many who were there for me and with me through that angst.  None of it is forgotten.  Not an ounce.  Among you was a certain John, who had read Dangerous Neighbors for Dear Author, written with great heart and intelligence about it, and become a friend.  I have not been kidding when I have said, in the past, that John might as well be a New York Times reviewer for all the care he brings to books.  It's almost impossible to think that college and career still lie before him.

In any case, I had been out to the movies one night and was in the passenger seat of the car when an email buzzed in from John.  He had just read You Are My Only.  He was writing to tell me what he thought.  "Why are you crying?" my husband asked me.  "Because the book mattered to someone," I said.

Yesterday John posted his Best of 2011 list for Dear Author.  There sits You Are My Only.

Thank you not just for this, John, but for so many gestures of great kindness.  I can't wait to see where your life takes you.