The Best and Most Beautiful Things

An edited essay reposted from the archives.

It was neither the best day, nor the most beautiful. But no amount of rain could dampen my mood. I sat across from a writing friend I’d known for years and drank my iced tea. (A little sweet for this girl from New Jersey who now lives in Virginia, but I’ve adapted.) Despite the drenching, we’d met for lunch at my favorite cafe. She’d just received another stellar review, I’d just released another book–with a short story releasing soon–so we were celebrating. We’d even planned on splitting dessert. A double chocolate and Nutella crepe with caramel lattes.

“So,” my friend said with a self-satisfied half-smile. “How does it feel not to have made a bestseller list with your last release?”

I choked on my tea and my heart skipped around, searching for a rhythm somewhere between shock, anger, and ripping out her hair. Finally I responded with a weak, “Not everyone is a bestseller on release day.” Great. Now I was on the defensive. Not a familiar place for this particular Jersey girl. So I added, “I’m proud of this book. It’s my first indie release and I love the story.”

“You have all of these books out yet you haven’t made the big sales.” She might as well as added the word loser as a stand-alone emphasis sentence.

I didn’t understand. She was my friend. We were supposed to support each other on our journeys, regardless of how long it took to reach our goals. She’d published her first manuscript almost immediately after finishing it, hit a huge bestseller list with her preorders, and had a bright publishing future. I’d been truly happy for her. Yet now I was under attack.

“Aaannnd,” she drew out the word while her perfectly-painted nails held her straw so she could sip her tea, “most of your published friends are at least USA Today bestsellers, if not NYT authors. You’ve been left behind.”

Then she reached over to squeeze my hand in fake concern, as if I didn’t see through her what is wrong with you? putdown. “I’m worried that at this rate, you’ll never be anything more than a mildest author.”

I pulled away and sat up until my aching S-curved spine straightened against the chairback. I’m not very good at a lot of things, but for some reason I’ve been blessed with the Jersey-girl comeback gene. Despite the fact I’m a huge introvert and quiet in public, I never regret not having the perfect retort until hours after an event because I’ve usually said it, made my point, and moved on. Except, for some reason, this was different. This hurt. My words–my reliable verbal defense–disappeared. All I wanted to do was run and hide.

But since Jersey girls don’t run away, I borrowed someone else’s words. “Every artist was once an amateur. There’s no shame in that.”

She scoffed. “You’re quoting Whitman?”

“No.” I took a long, slow sip of my too-sweet tea and scored my first hit. “Emerson.”

The waitress came by and I waved off the dessert menu. I wasn’t about to cry, but the back of my throat itched and my hands felt hot. When my friend didn’t respond, I shattered the silence. “Since when did this writing thing become a race?”

Lame, but I’m not Emerson.

“First of all, it’s a publishing thing, not a writing thing.” She tapped a red-tipped finger against slayer lips. “Maybe that’s your problem.”

We’d entered full-on combat mode? “So much for using “I” statements.”

She shrugged. “People are talking. It’s embarrassing.”

Embarrassing? “For me or you?”

She looked down and away. To the left. Betrayal burned, not unlike the night before when I’d hurt my fingers pulling a burnt marshmallow off a stick so my daughter could make s’mores over our backyard bonfire. Except last night I’d been able to lick off the sweet residue and make another. Today’s scorching could empower my self-doubts, incite my internal editor, and encourage my muse take off. Today’s scorching could derail my career before I even give it a chance. Today’s scorching could leave a scar. Today’s scorching could destroy my confidence and self-esteem. If I allowed it.

As I drank my tea and watched her squirm, unable to admit she was embarrassed by my apparent lack of talent, ambition, or self-awareness, I realized a few things. The first was I have never asked for, nor needed, her validation. I have always been a storyteller, but I came to the actual writing gig late. I wish that wasn’t the case, but since it is, there’s no use regretting it. I started writing down my stories years ago when my father was diagnosed with cancer and I had to move, with my four-year old twins, to another state to care for him while my husband held everything together at home. The writing became a desperate kind of therapy. Then, after my dad died and the grief kicked in, writing became life-saving.

Since his death, I have written eight and half manuscripts, garnered eight Golden Heart finals (RWA’s pre-published contest) in six years, and somehow snagged the agent of my dreams (probably because she got tired of me pestering her every year with a new manuscript). Then I sold to Sourcebooks/Random House and am now a hybrid author with multiple books published… and many more on preorder. For the past eighteen years, I have written my way out of too many griefs, through two lay-offs, around children who grew from preschoolers into young adults, a pandemic, and many other of life’s traumas. For almost two decades, I studied craft, wrote over two million words, and thought I’d made trusted friendships.

But as the woman across from me refused to meet my gaze, I knew that while I had made many wonderful friends, she wasn’t one of them. She was talking about me behind my back. She pitied me. And that truth made me sad. I’d shared my words with her and she’d shown her jagged edges.

I bit my tongue until I tasted blood. Then I waved over the waitress. “I’ll have the caramel latte and the double chocolate crepe.” I glanced at the friend I didn’t recognize anymore and smiled. “One fork.”

Her eyes widened in spite of the heavy mascara weighing down her eyelashes. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re jealous.”

Her palms hit the table and she leaned forward, almost out of her chair. Anger pinched her face until she resembled a feral ferret. “Of you?”

You see, my second realization was this: She envied me. Not for the bestseller flags or overflowing bank account. She envied me because she’d discovered the truth. In almost two decades, I have not only written many books but I’ve collected even more friends. And there is nothing more powerful in this difficult business than friends you make along the way. Friends she never made because her success came early on–and she was envied by others in return. I am blessed to have six Golden Heart classes of sisters and one brother who care about my journey, both trad and Indie authors who I can fall on for advice and comfort whenever I need, author buddies who would never mock me behind my back, who would never be embarrassed to sit next to me at lunch because my badge says AUTHOR instead of NYT BESTSELLER.

The third thing I discovered? She knew that those of us, both unpublished and published, who don’t push when we should pull, who struggle to hold on and don’t let go, who persevere through the hard because we know the only things that matter are the present and future readers, are the ones who will ultimately succeed. In our own way. In our own time. On our own terms. Always holding hands with those writers who’ve gone before, and those after.

“I am a Golden Heart Unsinkable, Starcatcher, Firebird, Lucky 13, Dreamweaver Dragonfly,” I said. “I am also a Sourcebooks/Random House author and an indie author who has more friends than that guy who won the lottery last week. One of my Golden Heart classes even has an unofficial victory song. Do you have a victory song?”

She grew fish lips. She knew, in that moment, she would never have that kind of support and love. Because she sold her very first manuscript, alone and without support, she was swimming in this ocean of sharks completely on her own. Whereas I had almost two decades of writing friends to balance the boat and sharpen the harpoons. So was I embarrassed I’m not yet a bestselling author? Or sad? Or scared?

(expletive deleted) No.

The waitress brought the dessert, placed it in front of me, and left. One fork glinted in the emerging sunlight.

“You’ll never succeed.” My ex-friend grabbed her purse and stood. “You’ll never be known. Never be seen.”

She tossed her hair and left the cafe, letting the door slam behind her.

The waitress hurried over with my latte and the check. “What was that all about?”

Of course my ex-friend left without paying. But I didn’t care. I had a dessert I didn’t have to share.

“She’s just mad because she inadvertently paid me a compliment.” I took a sip of my latte, then grabbed my fork. “Did you know that the best and most beautiful things in the world can’t be seen or even touched?”

She picked up my friend’s empty dishes and finished Helen Keller’s quote. “They must be felt with the heart.”

We laughed together until she nodded toward the window. “Look. The sun is out. We’re going to have a good day after all.”

“Not just a good day,” I said around a forkful of melting ice cream and chocolate. “We’re going to have the best future. And it’s going to be beautiful.”

---

---