Happy Birthday Anne Calhoun!

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I know there are lots of other things happening in the world today, but I’ve cried away the morning and now it’s time to turn my face to the sun. Actually, it’s cloudy and about to rain here in Florida, but you know what I mean–metaphorically speaking and all that. Here comes the happy!

There is an online party going on and all sorts of shenanigans organized by Jeffe Kennedy to celebrate the wonderful Anne Calhoun’s birthday. If you’ve read any of Anne’s books, you know this is definitely a day worth celebrating! If you haven’t read any of her books (uh, why not?) go here now and pre-order her newest novella, Afternoon Delight, which comes out next week.

Meanwhile, If you’re on Twitter, snap pic of your morning coffee or say a quick word, then slap on the #annebday hashtag. If you are a Facebook user, there’s a virtual party going on if you click here.

And that’s all there is to it! Happy Happy HAPPY Birthday Anne!

 

Friend or Faux

I remember in some sociology class in college the professor did this typically sociological thing when he used these Venn diagram circles to designate varying levels of intimacy. It was more of a target I think, not overlapping circles really. Anyway, at the center of the circle was the immediate family. The blood. Mother. Father. Siblings. The next circle was also bloody, but thinner. Cousins. In-laws. Then the friendship circle, people we meet and become friends with; then community people (co-workers, etc); then acquaintances; then radiating on out to strangers.

Because it was college—and the nature of friendship is unrealistic in the extreme when you have seventeen hours a day to smoke cigarettes and talk about that bootleg U2 cassette that you scored from the weird guy down the hall—the professor elaborated on the extended friendship circles. One example, which has always stuck with me, was the one about the movies. A close friend is someone you call and say, “Hey, want to go to the movies?” And if there isn’t a movie you can both agree on, you say, “No worries, let’s meet at the bar down on 2nd Avenue instead.” A friend further from the center would not trump that movie on that night, so maybe you’d say, “I’ll see you next week at the rodeo.” A not-close-friend who wasn’t able to make it wouldn’t warrant any future plan whatsoever, “Okay then.” All good.

But, let’s face it. Like the classification of animals, there is the occasional platypus. Is it a mammal? Is it a reptile? Poor monotremes…they just don’t quite fit. I have many platypi in my life. In fact, I am one. I have many varied and internally-conflicting interests. I used to fret about it. What if my super-WASP-y Republican friend with the 74 Lilly Pulitzer dresses met my activist Democrat friend who vacations in a yurt? But that’s the funny thing. They’re all friends with me, so the shared kook is already part of the equation. I am the common denominator. It was a relief. During those post-college years, I still thought of people in those idiotic circles. “Oh, she’s really sweet and was my roommate and owns a design store in Westchester.” “Oh, he’s really sarcastic and used to work with me at Boston Magazine.” But guess what? Now they are neighbors, no thanks to me. We’re all grown ups. So, I finally got the real-life crossover sorted. (Mostly.)

Then Social Media went and happened. Add a great big new wrinkle to the whole understanding-my-friendships, why don’t you, universe? So I dipped my toe into Facebook about five years ago. I “friended” all my friends: the childhood friends, the 98 first and second cousins, the usual. Then I became this freakishly avid reader of romance novels and I started friending the authors of those books. They were imaginary. I remember when Julia Quinn “accepted” my friend request and I was all aflutter. I knew she wasn’t ever coming over to dinner, but you know, we were “friends.” I guess the air-quotations say it all. *finger quotation* FRIENDS *finger quotation*

Here come the platypi. Is it live or is it Memorex? Fish or fowl? Friend or faux?

During my strange and wonderful travels in social media—particularly on Twitter which lends itself to totally inappropriate revelations of an intimate, sordid, personal nature—some of the air-quotation friends gradually became honest-to-goodness call-in-the-middle-of-the-night-because-I-am-freaking-out friends. As with all of the good friends I’ve made as an adult, these friends share a passion. On Twitter, that shared passion is usually books and a shared passion is powerful friend glue. But it’s not the be-all-and-end-all.

There’s that inexplicable “thing” that allows me to trust another human being to be my friend. The sound of their voice. The look in their eye. For me personally, that is not something that can be entirely based on social media alone. Don’t get me wrong! I trust many people I’ve never met in person, but they are not my friends. How could they be? I haven’t sniffed them. (I’m only half-joking about that.) Needless to say, the meaning of the word friend in society at large has been muddied by the omnipresence of air-quotation-friends. Facebook friends.

Exhibit A: When I first read Miranda Neville’s Never Resist Temptation I held it up to my husband and said, “THIS! This is what I am talking about! Smart! Sexy as hell! Witty! Clever without being toplofty! THIS!” At that point in time, Miranda was an imaginary author, a remote personage. I sent her a gushy fan email. She replied. We started laughing about the same things on Twitter. She was becoming a person. Then, when I met Miranda at RWA in New York City, I was still all fan-girl quivery and crazy. (I’m pretty sure I still like that book way more than she does and it continues to unnerve her). Anyway, it was like *click* because the minute she opened her mouth with that lovely British accent and ordered a second glass of wine I was like this:

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(And Miranda was probably like Steve Carrell in the background.) I knew we were going to become friends. And then it happened with a few other people. I read Anne Calhoun’s Liberating Lacey and sent her a fan email and now she is my Friend. Capital F. Ditto Mira Lyn Kelly. The list goes on. These are people I’ve met in real life. We’ve hugged. We’ve looked into one another’s eyes and agreed that we have a shared something. (I’ve sniffed.) In any case.

Here’s where it gets tricky. This little platypus blog all got started because I was watching a conversation on Twitter between some people who were saying how it’s a little odd when a Goodreads review says something like, “By the way, I am friends with the author.” There’s no right answer here. If the person writing the review wants to feel like they are showing a modicum of public disclosure (“Hey, I know this person in Real Life and she’s a real dynamo, but my feelings about the book are such-and-such regardless of our friendship…”) I totally respect that. If the person writing the review sounds like a douche (“Nicholas Sparks and I were at his villa in Montserrat sharing a robust Barolo while he read passages aloud, and I loved this book…”) Then, well, I don’t. (That said, I would probably “like” that Sparks review because it would have made me laugh—which is always worth a thumbs-up—but “liking” is a whole different story.)

There’s a bunch of other stuff I could address about the nature of friendship and its innumerable gray areas. Some seem obvious, like, you can’t pay someone to be your friend. But. Even that. My agent is my friend and she gets 15% of everything I earn. (I’d give her more, but that’s the going rate.) My husband is my friend and, in the end, he’ll get 100%. So, I don’t know much about anything, really, except if someone takes the time to read a book and slap a review up there, they’re braver than I am. 

PS Here is a review that factored into my thoughts on this essay:

http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/577430301

My friend Janet wrote it about my novella, Bound to Be a Bride. Janet and I met and became friends in much the same way I became friends with Miranda Neville: over time. I think Janet is ever-mindful of the ramifications of sock-puppetry and felt the need to say “knows me” so she wouldn’t be accused of “hiding” that fact. Or something.