It was a glorious occasion when my first novel, Stepping, was published by Doubleday in January, 1980! If you want an idea of just how much fun I had, count the champagne bottles on top of the bookcase behind my two fabulous friends Jill and Merry.
Doubleday threw me a pub party in NYC, and my glamorous friend Dina went with me. And yes, that is a cigarette in my hand. I thought it made me look sophisticated.
Stepping got a great review in the New York Times, complete with photo, even if it was right along the fold.
My lovely friends had an album made for my reviews and letters.
I received so many letters—remember letters? This was before the age of computers, email, and texting. And I’m so glad. I kept every single one of those letters and cards and photos from readers who liked my book. I have them all still, over thirty years later.
I got telegrams–remember telegrams? And I got cards, one from the woman who inspired my novel My Dearest Friend, about a woman whose best friend and husband. . .but we won’t talk about that now. In January 1980, I was overwhelmed by my good fortune.
My friend Katherine, a gifted potter, made this joyful jar for me. There I am, typewriter–remember typewriters?–and manuscript at my feet, champagne on the table and in my hand.
And the best of it all were my friends. What’s that saying? A good friend helps you during bad times, but the best friends help you celebrate.
It takes years of solitary plugging away to write a novel. It takes generous, huge-hearted, magnificent friends to help you celebrate its publication.