Will you read my stuff?

I try to say no, I really do. But in the end, curiosity and the desire to be (or be seen as) a good friend overcomes me. I say yes. And then, in my box, sit screenplays and poems and stories. There they sit. Reminding me of my lack of industry, of the difference between uttering a cheerful yes and actually finding the time to read. So, I feel bad for a long time. And then, I sit down to read. The poems are dazzling, the stories, caustic and crackling with original resentment and intelligence, the screenplay, richly imagined, commercial and fun. My friends are good writers, smart people, and well able to succeed at that trick of drawing an audience into their world. And my book, well, when it comes out, I have a growing number of folks who might just read it. But please, until September first, just don’t ask if I’ll read your stuff…