My BFF should have known better

I just spent a wonderful ski weekend with a group of woman I absolutely adore—my Best Friends Forever. We grew up together and have shared one another's joys and sorrows our whole lives. We only see each other a couple of times a year, and we're very different people, but we're there for one another. Always. A couple of these BFFs have read my books from the earliest drafts and bought them when they were published. They tell all their friends about me and their friends buy my books. They're my biggest fans.

One of these women is very religious and much prefers to read the bible and books about the bible, but she supports me by buying my books anyway. I find that incredibly sweet. And one of my friends isn't a big reader, doesn't see the point of fiction and is unlikely to ever read or buy one of my books. Still, she's happy when something good happens to me. What more can I ask?

So, one evening we went to a party thrown by people I didn't know, and several women came up to us and asked which one was the author, and then gushed about my books. One lady actually crashed the party because she'd heard I was going to be there and she wanted to tell me in person how much she loved my books! All of my BFFs thought it was great. They kept hugging me and calling me the "rock star" of the evening.

A rock star. That was just how I felt. It was wonderful. Yes, I'd been drinking wine, but the high I was on was all about these people acknowledging me as an author of some worth. The feeling was indescribable.

And then, as we were getting ready to leave the party, my beautiful, much loved, non-reading BFF said, "Wasn't it great that all these women came clean?"

I froze. She couldn't be saying… "What do you mean?" I asked, hoping I'd misunderstood. "Coming clean about what?"

"About reading your books," she said.

My blissful high evaporated in a single instant. "Why would they have to come clean about reading my books?" I asked. But I knew. Of course I knew. What I didn't know, could never have predicted, was that the next thing out of her mouth would pierce my bubble with such a deafening pop.

"Well," she said with a half shrug, "they're just trash, right?"

Ouch.

I think I left my body for a few minutes while I absorbed the shock. Did one of my oldest, dearest friends really think I spent my time creating "trash?" Did she not know me at all, even after all these years?

Okay, sure, those of us who love romance joke about trashy books, but that's meant to be ironic or something. Dry. Self-deprecating, even. When people who don't read the genre say it's trash, it's an insult. And it reveals their ignorance.

I love this woman and always will. We'll be close for the rest of our lives, without a doubt. Of all of us, she's always been the best at sticking her foot in her mouth. (Okay, make that her whole damn skinny leg.) She's an artist and an athlete and a single mom and she doesn't read books for enjoyment. She has no idea what it takes to actually conceive and write a whole book and get it to publication. So I forgive her for hurting me. Of course I do. I can't imagine anything she could do short of murdering my children that I would find unforgivable.

But jeez, she's an artist—a creative person, like me. And I love her to death. She should have known better, damn it.

—Ana

Ana writes sexy romantic suspense, and she loves to hear from readers. If you'd like to read one of her current ebooks, either leave a comment here or email her at: ana@anabarrons.com, let her know which book you'd like (WrongfullyAccused, Son of the Enemy or Betrayed by Trust) and in what format, and she'll send you a copy.