The other day I received a kind note from a young woman who had just finished reading—in one rainy-day sitting—my novel, Every Exquisite Thing.
She spotted it on a bookshop clearance rack and bought it on a whim. She said she found the read relatable and—upon finishing it—was shocked she hadn’t previously heard of Every Exquisite Thing. Then she shared a few personal details about her life before stating she couldn’t remember the last time a book had made such an impact on her.
It was the type of wonderful, generous, and open-hearted letter that is almost exclusively written by young people. It reminded me of why I used to love being a high school teacher, back when I worked all day long with teens who had not yet fully hardened into adults.
I was, of course, deeply moved and grateful to know that words I wrote years ago had made this particular reader feel less alone.
But—and I’m ashamed to admit this—there was a small part of me that also thought, Every Exquisite Thing hardbacks are on the bargain rack? That can’t be good for my career!
Those dark voices are what my analyst calls the rats in my brain, because they gnaw through my better brighter impulses.
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