Close your eyes for a minute and picture the layout of a bookstore. Any bookstore, it doesn’t really matter, they’re all generally the same. There are books that greet you right as you walk in, confident, popular, exclaiming “New York Times Best-Seller’s List!” There are the average books back on the shelves in the middle, who are content to sit and wait until someone comes by and picks them out of the crowd, and there are the books lying sadly on the clearance tables, hoping and wishing that someone will come by and rescue them from the doomed fate of a recycled paper mill.
I have this theory that everyone’s life is a different book. We’re all different genres and we’re made of different chapters and paragraphs and sentences, but together, we make up the whole bookstore. Some people are the bright shiny books in front that will be remembered forever in Facebook posts and newspaper articles and English classes, while other people are the books that will be read once or twice, and then packed away in someone’s attic, only to be completely forgotten about.
I used to think it was imperative for my book to end up on the best-seller’s list, right in front, for everyone to look at and admire and wish that they were me. Lately, however, I’ve had a change of heart. I’ve thought about my favorite people, and my favorite books, and I’ve realized that it’s more important to be loved deeply than to be liked widely. I have no need for everyone to know my name, and I’d rather have one true friend than one hundred fake ones. I don’t really care where I’m placed in the bookstore of life, or how many people stop and pick me up, just as long as the ones that do never want to put me back down.