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A friend of mine died last month. We weren’t particularly close, but I liked her a lot—we’d have coffee near Union Square every so often and she’d talk about her budding music career and I’d talk about my long-gestating novel. I tend not to enjoy unifying conversations about art that include me. I admire the obvious external talents of actors and singers and basketball players more than the writer’s drudging isolation and, karaoke daydreams aside, I don’t crave the immediacy of reaction that performers chase. But my friend’s genuine enthusiasm for what she called “our craft” was infectious and I always got a creative jolt out of seeing her. She was too earnest, too well-liked, too attractive, to have ever generated evident self-consciousness.


  1. That's a pretty odd selection of comments so far on a beautiful tribute to your friend. It does seem strange to dump someone in that circumstance, but ultimately, it showed that life goes on, whether it's going to end tomorrow or 40 years from now. A woman of principle. I'm glad you knew her.

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