If you need permission to hate my book, this is it.

A friend just pointed out to me his apprehension about recently reading The Cutting Room. He was afraid how awkward it would be if he hated it.

His comments made me realize that there may be a lot of people out there with the same concern. And whereas he loved the book (at least he said he did), others may not. That’s okay. Well, no, it would be too bad. But I get it. I don’t like many of the books I pick up. I give them all a chance, but I end up tossing aside a lot more books than, say, my wife, who can’t put anything down. She’s reading Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter right now and keeps telling me how much she dislikes the dialogue. But she keeps plugging away.

I don’t want anyone to think they can’t be honest with me. I’ve had the nerve to publish the damn book. The least I can do is gracefully accept the criticism—much of which I know will be constructive. After all, no one knows the book's weaknesses better than I do.