Christy Potter's Blog, page 17

Summer love… 80s style

I was sorting through a box of my old books yesterday, and I realized what a wonder, what an absolute miracle it is, that I ever managed to have any normal romantic relationships at all, given the books I read as a teenager. They were all published under imprints like “Wildfire” and “Sweet Dreams,” which probably should have been my first tip-off.

I don’t know when I realized that those books had led me down a primrose path of love that not only wasn’t very likely to happen to me, it wasn’t very likely to happen to anyone and probably all the plots were the result of the writers’ own crushed pubescent daydreams.

There comes a point in every young girl’s life when we are forced to realize that, despite what we’ve been reading, our parents are not going to jet off to Europe for the summer and send us to live with an aunt and uncle we for some reason don’t know very well but who live on a sprawling ranch, where one of the ranch hands is a quiet, moody boy with blue eyes who acts like a jerk to us so we pretend to ignore him although we aren’t really because that’s how we’re able to discover him reading a book of poetry under a tree one day on his lunch break, and we realize he has a beautiful soul to go with those beautiful eyes and we spend the rest of the summer blissfully in love until our stupid parents come back from stupid Europe and we have to go home, our heart shattered into a million pieces until he promises to write every day, the end.

If I’d have taken every plot line of these books to heart, I’d have grown up believing that:

a. You only fall in love during the summer, and then only if you’ve got at least a good base tan.

b. You only fall in love when you’re on vacation or visiting somewhere else. If you’re stuck spending the summer at home, you might as well enroll in Convent Camp.

c. Boys who act moody or jerky always secretly have a beautiful, poetic soul.

d. If there’s something horribly wrong with you, like good grades or braces, don’t worry. Once you meet a cute boy, you’ll be all right.

I remember falling in love with a boy at summer camp when I was fourteen, and I mean I went ass over teakettle for this guy. He had sandy brown hair and dark eyes and long eyelashes and knew how to play “Chariots of Fire” on the piano. From memory. Our steamy summer romance consisted of me accepting his invitation to sit on his lap one day while he played the piano in the dining hall, and my friends being sincerely scandalized at my behavior. When camp was over I went home and bought the sheet music to “Chariots of Fire” and learned to play it and never saw him again. That is how my love life usually went, but even I know that would make for a lame romance novel. Actually, my whole life would, now that I think about it. And yet for some strange reason, I’m good with that.

Dan Brown’s books: Love them or leave them?

Dan Brown’s latest offering, “Inferno,” is probably one of the most talked-about book releases in ages. I’m listening to all the discussion about it as both a writer and a reader, and I’m amused and disturbed by the general reaction. I have not read it. I doubt I will. I read “The DaVinci Code” a few months after it came out because my book group chose it. I actually liked it. I enjoyed the suspense, the history, the fact that Brown was willing to posit “What if Jesus had been married?” I took harsh criticism from some conservative Christians in my life for reading it at all, but made no apology for it. I love playing “What if?” I’m a writer – it’s what we do. Besides, everyone knows you can’t go against the book group. Those women drink a lot of wine. They’re scary.

“The DaVinci Code” was an entertaining read, but I finished it, put it aside, and thought, “Good story. Mediocre writer.” And that, that right there, is why I am not likely to pick up “Inferno.” I didn’t read any of the books that came between this one and the first one either. I never said much to people about my estimation of Brown’s writing, because frankly, who am I? I self-published a paperback of my essays and just left a voice mail for a local librarian to see if she wants a copy. Dan Brown could probably get the head of Doubleday on the phone at 2 in the morning.

It’s not that I find Brown a terrible writer – I give traditional publishing enough credit to believe that if he was just another hack who wanted to play author, he would never have gotten published at all. He’s an okay writer and a good storyteller (yes, there’s a difference). But on the other hand, he was hyped enough that I expected his writing to wow me, to inspire me, to make me dash back into my own writing room and take up my work-in-progress with a renewed passion for my craft. The writers I love most always have that effect on me. The smooth simplicity of John Updike’s books seep into my psyche and slip into my writing in subtle, amazing ways. The sprawling literary landscapes of Jonathan Franzen make me weepy with the privilege of sharing an occupation with such a writer. With Brown, I put the book down, shrugged, and said “Well, good for him.”

I’ve read the descriptions of all of Brown’s books since “The DaVinci Code,” and they sound the same to me. Different names, different secret societies, but still with Robert Langdon being all university-flavored and tweedy and strangely obtuse about women, and some enigmatic figure dying and leaving behind a cryptic message. I guess if it ain’t broke…

I find Brown fascinating. It’s been ages since a popular writer has been so polarizing, and elicited such emotion from people on both sides – which, by the way, is a great way to boost book sales. (Memo to myself: figure out how to polarize.) Every time he comes out with a new title, critics are all over it, readers are arguing about it, and writers everywhere either tear him apart or rush to his defense. Some of my friends whose intellect I respect very much devour everything Brown writes. Others I respect just as much don’t like him at all.

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve read dozens of articles about the release of “Inferno,” and the reactions to it, both ahead of time and in the reviews now, are as mixed as I expected. One writer gave Brown a satirical skewering. The New York Times loved it. The Washington Post loved it a little less. Across the pond, the Telegraph dubbed it Brown’s “most ambitious novel yet – and his worst.”

What is it about Brown’s books that keep people buying them? He has publishers here and in the UK, and “Inferno” was touted as the most highly anticipated release since the final book in the Harry Potter series. As a fledgling author, I keep a close eye on what others are doing, and Brown is obviously doing something right. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Dancing with myself in the mirror

I had the first reading and signing of my new book last week, and during the Q&A, someone asked if it’s at all scary to put my book out there for the world to read, knowing there are those who may not like it, and may not be shy about saying so.

In a word, yes.

I’ve always known that writing, at least in my world, is like dancing in front of the mirror. When I’m done, the only voice I hear saying either “What the hell was that supposed to be?” or “Wow, you are ah-MAZING!” is my own. Unlike a stage actor or a stand-up comedian, if my work elicits nothing but cricket sounds, I don’t know it. I’ve been a journalist for some 20 years, and during that time, I’ve had readers who weren’t hesitant to tell me an article stunk, or that they disagreed with my coverage of an issue. That’s entirely different. They were angry about the story itself – it wasn’t about me as a person.

But the book that a group of people carried out of my first book signing is about me as a person. It’s full of essays about my life, about my relationships, my struggle with infertility, growing older, self-awareness, family problems, weight problems, traffic and finances and cat hair. I’m not writing a story about the local city council race. I’m writing about me. And, here’s where things change drastically from my dancing in front of the mirror days: I’m asking people to write reviews. I’m on the stage now, under the spotlight. The curtain is up. What’s coming? Applause? Crickets? Rotten tomatoes and tin cans? So far, it’s all been applause, but I know there are those out there who probably won’t like it. I’m braced for that. I’ve already been asked why I went with something as old-school as essays when everyone else is writing erotica. Question asked and answered.

But this book, this collection of essays that give the reader warts-and-all glimpses of my life, is just how I write. It’s how I relate. It’s how I hope people will relate to me. Is it scary to think that people could read it and hate it? Yes! Feeling like someone doesn’t relate to you, especially when you’re hoping they will, results in the very essence of aloneness – that echoing feeling of being the only kid at recess without somebody to play with.

The counterbalance is, of course, that some people, dare I say most people, will relate to my book. They will see themselves in some of what I write, they’ll understand where I’m coming from, or they’ll find some interesting tidbit they didn’t know about one of the well-known writers I interviewed. My cousin Brian donated a copy of my book to his local library, and the librarian wanted to read it before she decided whether or not to put it into circulation. She read my essay about my frustrated devotion to Philip Roth, whom she also loves, and the deal was sealed. The book is now on the library’s shelves. Now that’s what I call relating.

The answer to my questioner, that night at my book signing, was yes. It’s scary to put my work on display, to open my life for so many people to see. But it’s the only way to get myself out there, to build a readership, to know that my next book will be eagerly anticipated, and to feel, to finally feel, that I’ve settled myself comfortably into being what I’ve always known I’d be: a writer.

“What does Christy dislike?” – Anonymous reviewer

A review (the only one so far although I hope there will be more *ahem*) of my new book on Barnes & Noble gave it four out of five stars, withholding the fifth until the anonymous reviewer finds out “the truth.”  Where is the volcanically angry Christy? he wants to know. “Where is the ingenious, outrageous lust, the bitter criticism, the delighted malice?” he asked.

Interesting take on my writing. Yes, I do try to be positive and focus on beauty and love and inspiration, but maybe my reviewer was right. Maybe that’s not real enough. So okay then! You want volcanic Christy? All right. All right, you want to know what makes me angry? YOU GOT IT! (Deep breath…)

The longest thirty seconds of my life are the ones I spend waiting for the ad at the beginning of the video I want to watch!

The people who are the quickest to tell me what they really think are the ones who would be the maddest if I did it too!

I went through thousands of music lessons and hundreds of school music programs and never did find out if Aunt Rhody was pissed about that goose!

Both parties in our political system suck!

TV shows used to have seasons that actually lasted a whole season! And reruns were only on during the summer! We’re getting hosed!

Sour milk!

When I get a cramp in my foot just when I am falling asleep!

Kathie Lee and Hoda!

When I tell a hilarious joke and no one gets it!

When I’m in a group of people who are reading in unison and one person is always a tiny bit ahead!

Journalists who stick their opinions in news stories, like I’m not smart enough to form my own opinion! I. WANT. TO. PUNCH. THEM. SO. MUCH.

Cat hair! I’m in an endless, losing battle against cat hair!

When I put the spoon in my empty yogurt container it ALWAYS TIPS OVER!

CAR DEALERSHIP COMMERCIALS! AAAAAAUGH!

Gasp…gasp…gasp…

Happy birthday, where’s my hair?

After a long, restless night in which I dreamed that John Updike was yelling at me, drill sergeant-style, about the book he wanted me to write, I woke up to the sun trying to sneak in the window like a teenager who’d blown curfew, and I gradually remembered that today is my 44th birthday.

Every year, this is the day I take a few moments to reflect on the previous year of my life, do an emotional inventory, toss out what I no longer need, move the important stuff to the front, and maybe this year decide to read a little less Updike.

The biggest change for me with this birthday came last weekend, when I went to my favorite salon in midtown Manhattan, sat down in the chair and said, “Cut it off.” I like this salon because they’re funky and daring and never question me, no matter how bizarre my request is. This time, though, the stylist asked me if I was sure. Her boss came over and asked me if I was sure. The receptionist got out the smelling salts and looked up my therapist’s number, just in case.

“Cut it off,” I repeated.

The stylist gathered a big handful of my hair into a ponytail, put the scissors near the roots, and looked at me in the mirror as though I’d just asked her to harvest an organ.

“Are you ready?” she said. All around the salon, I could see stylists and clients alike trying to watch out of the sides of their eyes. The receptionist looked like the “Kilroy was here” guy, peering over the divider wall. When she closed the blades and the scissors chewed through the wad of hair, the entire salon was so quiet you could have heard a gnat sneeze. Looking back now, I should have screamed. Just to mess with them.

By the time she was done, everyone agreed – it looked really cute. Very Jamie Lee Curtis. And almost completely gray.

The most amazing part to me is not that I had the guts to chop off all my hair or even go gray – I’m ridiculously brave when it comes to my hair – it’s the psychological change it has made in me. I never realized how much emphasis I had been putting on my hair as a vital part of my appearance. I would spend ages drying it, curling it, putting it up, pulling it back… and of course coloring it. I don’t know how many thousands of gallons of hair dye have rinsed down my shower drain, leaving a veritable rainbow of earth tones stained onto my follicles and ends so dry they should have been labeled a fire hazard.

Now it’s just me. Without all that hair, when I look in the mirror I just see my face. In my years-long deliberation over whether or not to wear bangs, I kind of forgot what my forehead actually looks like. While pulling my hair back on the sides in barrettes and combs, I didn’t pay any attention to my temples and cheekbones. Without a ponytail hanging down over it, I’ve noticed my neck is longer than I thought.

It still feels a little strange, I’ll admit, being out in public. When people look at me, I can’t help but wonder what they’re thinking, because there’s no doubt what they’re seeing – they’re seeing me. Just me, just my big, broad, Anglo-American face, with its wide, round features and thin lips and whatever mascara mishap I probably had that morning. I’m more aware of my face, in a good way. I smile more. I lift my chin. I make direct eye contact.

That was my birthday gift to myself this year – a haircut that isn’t about my hair at all. It’s about uncovering me.

“The little things are infinitely the most important.” Arthur Conan Doyle

It seems to me that the more complicated and difficult life gets, the more we truly appreciate the little things.

Sounds like an oxymoron, doesn’t it? The simple things that we left behind in a cloud of dust as we race for the newest, the biggest, the best of everything – those are what make us happiest now?

I can’t speak for everyone else, but they do for me. I almost cried with happiness this week when I saw the first forsythia bushes shouting out their happy yellow message of spring. I was more excited for the first day of baseball season that I remember ever being. This afternoon I saw people sitting outside at a local cafe, soaking up sunshine and coffee, and it made me feel good. With everything else going on in my life right now, those three things took me back to a time when I noticed stuff like that, back to an era in my life when I had time to appreciate forsythia and baseball and eating outside.

I was waiting for the mail today, expecting a check I very much needed, and I kept going out to the porch and opening the lid on the mailbox and peering inside. Each time, I felt that little clutch of expectancy as I touched the lid… maybe this time there would be mail inside. And when there wasn’t, I experienced it all over again 20 minutes later as I shuffled back out to the porch. With everything else in my life having become instantaneous, I suddenly realized I was enjoying waiting for the mail. Thanks to a greased-lightening internet connection, I don’t have time to even wonder what’s in my e-mail inbox before I’m bombarded with offers of free Viagra and back-to-school loans. I’ve lost the joy of anticipation.

When I was a kid, I had a little Kodak camera, the kind you had to manually forward with your thumb until you felt resistance and then you knew it was ready for the next shot. When there was anything on a roll of film that I was dying to see, I’d use up the rest of the pictures as fast as I could – that’s where all those blurry shots of my hamsters came from – and then badger my parents to drive me to the grocery store so I could fill out one of those envelopes and stick the roll of film inside and push down the gummy flap and drop it in the slot … and wait. And wait. And wait. And call the poor clerk several times a day after the first couple of days and ask him to please check and see if my pictures were back. And God help the man when they actually were back, as I’d be at the store before he finished hanging up the phone, and I’d open the envelope and slide out the thick stack of pictures and stand there, reliving every moment I’d captured on film as if it had been the most important of my life.

I took a picture of a child the other day, and she immediately came over to me and reached for my camera, wanting to see the digital image on the back. Something inside me died a little. And we thought Polaroids were fast.

That’s what I mean when I say I miss the little things. Excited, chest-squeezy anticipation, foot-stamping impatience, those glorious “FINALLY!” moments. That’s why I was overjoyed to see the forsythia, to hear the first crack of the bat, to see people sitting outside at the local cafe. Winter, as insufferably long as it was this year, gave me back those little things during this past week. It’s enough to make me wish I had a roll of film around here somewhere.

Breathless

I’ve spent the last two weeks running in circles, waving my arms, shouting and hyperventilating and making lists and making more lists and eating chocolate and crossing things off my lists and pulling my hair out and drinking wine and pacing around and muttering to myself. Not that any of this is all that unusual for me, but this time it’s all in the name of book promotion. No wonder agents always seem so tired and cranky.

Having read a disturbingly large number of accounts of writers who have self-published, then had to swallow the bitter pill of watching their books not do well or worse, just sit there unnoticed, I am working hard to keep mine in front of people. I’ve done everything but set copies on fire and chuck them at passing cars, and I may try that next. I don’t mind, really, it’s fun to come up with new and creative ways to tout my work.

So far, I’ve done a podcast (free on iTunes, click here to download), built a Pinterest page, created a “Christy Potter, Author” Facebook page and a new Twitter feed. I’ve gotten a great review from the independent writing website, The Well Written Woman, two five-star reviews on Amazon, a four-star review on Barnes & Noble, and a four-star rating on Goodreads. Three more independent book reviewers have it in their hands now.

I’ve also arranged a few book signings locally (e-mail me if you’re anywhere in the New York metro area and want details) and this afternoon (Friday, April 5) we’re having a major book launch party on Facebook and Twitter. Tomorrow’s parties are virtual, so feel free to join in for giveaways, ordering information (in both ebook and paperback format), contests, trivia and all kinds of fun party stuff. The best part about it being online is I don’t have to worry about anyone driving home after too much champagne, and no dishes to clean up.

Not bad for two weeks’ work, if I say so myself.

But here’s the thing.

Yesterday afternoon, all of the noise and the buzz and the excitement of recent days stopped… it just stopped… the moment that first box of books arrived on my doorstep. I can’t speak for other writers, but for me, it all came down to the moment I opened that box. I lifted the cardboard flap and all my childhood dreams, all my teenaged ambitions, all my years of writing and editing and rejection letters came rushing out to embrace me when I saw my name on that cover.

“Excited” doesn’t begin to cover it. “Blessed” comes a whole lot closer.

 

 

Bundles and acres and miles of thanks… and why I self-published my book

Anyone who knows me will tell you that if you can leave me lost for words, you’ve won.

Congratulations, everyone… you’ve won. The outpouring of support and encouragement I’ve received since I launched my e-book last weekend has left me speechless. I don’t know what to even say except thank you.

It’s been an interesting experience, this whole thing. Several people have asked if I self-published. I guess it’s not as easy to tell with electronic books. Yes, I published this myself, under the name of my happy little indie publishing company, Top Down Publishing. I will admit I’ve been criticized, either to my face or by a conspicuous silence, for not going through traditional routes to get published. Some of my fellow writers have chosen to completely ignore my book, while others have been wonderfully supportive.

Self-publishing, also known as indie publishing, is a divisive topic among writers these days. Many who have been published the traditional way look down their noses at it. They say that electronic publishing has made it too easy for anyone with a computer to declare themselves a writer, pound out a couple of hundred pages, and upload it, without paying any or nearly enough attention to proofreading or editing or even getting a decent cover for it. And they’re right. I’ve noticed it myself in a huge amount of e-books lately. People see it as a quick way to make a lot of money (spoiler alert: it isn’t) so they put anything they can think of out there and call it a book and in the process, grievously underestimate the reading public. A typo can happen to anyone – I’ve seen them in bestsellers – but blatant mistakes, repeated spelling and grammatical errors and overall sloppy writing make the writer look like a hack. It cheapens the reading experience for readers, and the writing experience for writers.

That said, there are a number of amazing writers out there who, for one reason or another, turned to self-publishing. Sometimes it’s the ability to keep more of the royalties, but more often than not, it’s because they’ve been repeatedly denied entry into the traditional publishing industry. Given what I’ve now seen in the indie publishing world, I even feel a twinge of pity for agents and publishers. They must be deluged with poorly-written manuscripts. How can they weed out the good ones without having to stop after every third envelope and have a stiff drink?

I will tell you that I have approached agents and publishers in the past with a manuscript that’s now somewhere at the bottom of a drawer in my writing room. It has been edited and revised and rewritten and polished within an inch of its edges, it’s been read and additionally polished by a small group of trusted writer friends. So you can imagine how it felt to get rejection after rejection from agents who couldn’t be bothered to even ask for samples, or send anything other than a pre-printed postcard that said “Sorry, not taking new clients right now.” My favorite was a two-inch, crookedly cut slip of paper that was stamped with a generic rejection message. It showed up in my mailbox less than 24 hours after I’d sent the query. I had visions of a bored intern methodically opening each envelope, taking out the SASEs, stuffing rejection letters into each one and shoving them all into the mailbox on her way to get lunch.

There’s an adage in the writing world that says to get published, you need an agent, and to get an agent, you need a miracle. I used to think it was funny. I don’t anymore. I’m a professional, widely-published (just not books), award-winning writer. I would no sooner send an agent a sloppy, ill-written manuscript than I’d spit on my grandmother. I just happen to not have gotten that break, that miracle.

A few years back, I went to a writers’ conference in New York. The room was packed to the rafters with aspiring writers who listened raptly to a panel of agents telling us what to do and what not to do when attempting to find an agent. After the panel discussion, the agents were stationed in different places around the room, and we were shuttled, like cattle, through long lines and then, in pairs, we were given five minutes to pitch our ideas to an agent. That comes out to 2.5 minutes for each writer to try and convince an exhausted and harassed agent why they should represent us. Needless to say, I didn’t hear of anyone who walked out of there with even a glimmer of hope. The agent I spoke to actually told me that she can’t sell fiction, and the only non-fiction she wants are trashy celebrity stories.

I weep for this country’s intellect if that’s true.

Some months ago I got into a bit of a heated discussion with a woman on a social media site who has found considerable success as a novelist and has an agent and a publisher and all the bells and whistles that come with the package. I don’t know her, she’s the friend of a friend, but she made a sweeping statement about self-published authors being amateurs, making it sound like everyone who doesn’t have a six-figure publishing contract is a poser and a wanna-be. I took exception to that, explaining to her everything I’ve said above. Her condescending response was that if I’d been rejected by the traditional publishing world, it was “for very good reasons.” And the horse I rode in on too, no doubt.

Yes, I self-published “The World Was My Oyster But I Didn’t Know How to Cook.” I didn’t even bother trying to find an agent, or sending it to a publisher. It’s been heavily edited, many times. It has a professionally-designed cover. I’m now knee-deep in learning how to promote and market it. Is it perfect? I’ve no idea. But it’s as perfect as I know how to make it, and I put my name on the cover. For someone who has known she was a writer since she was six years old, that’s a big deal. I decided to make my own miracle.

So much for being speechless. Again, thank you all for the incredible support you’ve shown me in this new venture. I appreciate it, more than I will ever be able to express.

My new e-book is now available! And I don’t use exclamation points lightly!

I’ve always wanted to release a “Greatest Hits” album.

Of course, I’m not a singer and therefore have had no hits, greatest or otherwise. However, thanks to readers frequently asking me to send them links to some of their favorites of stuff I’ve written, it occurred to me that I actually could release my greatest hits, and get my feet wet in the world of e-publishing in the process.

So that’s what I did. I’m over the moon with excitement to announce that my e-book, “The World Was My Oyster But I Didn’t Know How to Cook,” is now available for Kindle, Nook, and as soon as Apple finishes overcomplicating things, it will be available for iPad. A print version will be out in the not-too-distant future. It’s also available in the UK.

“Oyster” is a compilation of some of my most popular works, including short stories, writer interviews, poems and essays. It also includes a few pieces you won’t find here. In reading back over everything as I worked on the collection, I was reminded all over again why I do this, why I’ve never wanted to be anything but a writer, and why I love sharing it with you. I appreciate your support more than you even know.

This is also a prelude to my debut novel, which will be released this summer. More on that later.

Below are the links to download “The World Was My Oyster But I Didn’t Know How to Cook.” If you don’t have an e-reader, the bottom link will explain how you can still get a copy. If you love it, or even just mildly like it, please leave a review on the site you used. I even welcome negative reviews, but give me a heads-up first so I can pour a big glass of wine and get the chocolate ready.

Thank you again, all of you, for your support and loyal following. This one’s for you.

Click here to download from Barnes & Noble for Nook

Click here to download from Amazon for Kindle

The World Was My Oyster But I Didn’t Know How to Cook

“No friendship is an accident.” O. Henry

I heard something earlier today about a former friend, and it gave me pause to consider how transient some friendships are, and what a difficult thing friendship can be.

The friend I heard about dropped out of my life several years ago, for reasons I am still not clear on. I suppose it doesn’t matter, really. We have both moved on with our lives and I’m glad we were friends for awhile.

Friendships fascinate me. When you find yourself drawn to someone as a potential friend, there is no societally-approved line, no “I’d like to see you again,” to mark the beginning of a friendship, nothing we say further into the friendship to cement it, and certainly no graceful way to get out of it.

How do you break up with a friend? I rarely shed friends without cause – heck, I’m still friends with most of my ex-loves – but sometimes there is a reason. I’ve tried the direct way, and I’ve tried the just-slink-away-and-hide approach. I’m not convinced either one is right or wrong. In their own ways, both kind of suck. But if a friendship has taken you to the point where you even have to consider severing it, is there any reason to try and keep it alive? I don’t think so. The moaner, the drama queen, the taker, the opera singer (you know… “Me me me me meeee!”), the backstabber, the pessimist… all of them are psychic drains. Toxic friends are worse than no friends at all.

If my former friend had told me what was bothering her so much, would I have tried to fix it? Probably. But given that I’ve truly no idea what could have set her off, I’m left with the realization that if the relationship was that tenuous, I don’t really want it. While I was heartbroken when she first disappeared from my life, I never think of her now until someone mentions her.

So what makes a good friendship such a valuable and precious thing? I have friends now I’ve had since I was a child. I have friends I made in high school, in college, and throughout my career. I have friends of both genders. I have church friends, book group friends, yoga friends, writer friends. My favorites are the ones you can go for weeks without talking to, and when you reconnect, it’s like no time has passed at all. I’m not always a great friend, I know. I often get so absorbed in my work that I forget to lift my head and tell my friends I love them. My only hope is that during the times I’m not hibernating (writernating?) I show them enough love that it carries them through.

Friends, true friends, are one of our most valuable resources. Tell one of yours today how much they mean to you. With all the negative and bad bubbling around us, we can never love too much.