In May of 2005, the publication of my first book IMMORAL was still several months away, but early copies had begun to make their way to advance readers. I'd heard many kind words from people inside the industry, but I didn't know what to expect or how the book would be received among people in the real world. Readers. The ones who really count.
Then, on May 22, 2005, I received my first-ever fan letter. It was from a woman named Gail in northern California. She'd been a bookseller in the Bay Area, and she was still on the list to receive advance copies from publishers.
"Where have you been?" Gail wrote to me. "Why didn't someone send you to sit in the corner to write sooner? This is the most brilliant, haunting debut thriller I've ever read." She went on for several paragraphs to talk about the plot and characters, and by the time I was done reading her note, I felt as if I had a future as a writer. It was one of those moments from my career that I will always cherish.
Gail and I kept writing to each other, and we quickly became friends. When IMMORAL was released, I had a few t-shirts printed with the cover art, and I sent her a signed shirt. It was ridiculously big for this lovely, tiny woman, but when I did a book signing in northern California that fall, there was Gail, proudly waiting for me at the bookstore, with her IMMORAL t-shirt hanging down practically to her knees.
I began to send Gail early manuscripts of my work to get feedback before I even submitted them to my editors. With my last two books, I sent her the first section of the draft while it was in progress, long before anyone, even Marcia, had seen it. Writing a book is a lonely, neurotic adventure, and as you are in the earliest stages of building a new novel, you can't believe it will ever come together. But when Gail wrote back to me, hungry to read more, urging me to write faster, I knew the book would be what I wanted it to be.
Marcia and I had the good fortune to meet Gail and her family two more times in the past few years. We had dinner with her, her daughter, her son-in-law, and her grandson over paella and wine on perfect northern California afternoons. The picture here is of me and Gail on one of those occasions, and I will always remember us on that walk in the hills, side by side, both of us climbing toward the future.
Gail was coy about her past. She loved keeping secrets and would let out little hints about her wilder days, enough to whet your appetite for more. She was a young woman in northern California in the 1960s...you can do the math. I always suggested to Gail that she and I should sit down sometime and write her autobiography. But some books are meant to be lived, not written.
More than a year ago, Gail wrote to tell me that she was in a battle with cancer. She had fought the disease once before years earlier and beaten it, and I felt that if anyone had the courage and strength to win that battle again, it was Gail. She waged a remarkable struggle, and for a while, it seemed as if nothing could defeat her. Doctors called her their miracle patient when all the scans last fall came back clear and healthy. But cancer is an evil and shameless foe, and I learned this morning that it had taken away this woman who had grown to mean so much to me and Marcia.
Gail would be annoyed with me for the tears we've shed today. She told me that she lived an incredible life and that in all those years she had only one regret - that she ever lit that first cigarette.
I will miss all of her notes, her humor, her enthusiasm, her inspiration. I will miss the joy and pride I felt when I could put a new book in her hands. But in every book I write from this day forward, there will always be a little bit of Gail. She will be at my shoulder and in my head and heart, helping me. For now, though, the lonely work of writing feels especially lonely today. Goodbye, Gail, and thanks for everything. We miss you.
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