Shaw - Better You, Better Friends: A Whole New Approach to Friendship

Glenda D. Shaw has worked for more than twenty-five years as a producer for talk television and radio shows in Los Angeles and New York for companies including Viacom, King World, and MTV. Nominated for two Daytime Emmys for producing and writing, she is a member of the Writers Guild of America, the Producers Guild of America, and the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences. She has also written for magazines, including LA Style.

T he process of creating and publishing a book is never a one-person effort, and this book on friendship, appropriately, took my friend community to put together. I am grateful for the support I have received all along the way.

Id like to thank my editor, Margaret Bendet, for her incredible editorial skills and patience and for encouraging me to shift my focus toward something more personal and enduring.

Also, a big thanks to my science editor, Nolina Doud, who helped me navigate some complex science as well as locating specific studies when needed. Im also grateful to the professors and coaches who graciously shared their research and insights with me.

To my agent, Anne Devlin, and the editorial, creative, and production team at Rowman & Littlefield, especially the senior executive editor Suzanne Staszak-SilvaI cant thank you all enough for believing in this book.

There are many close and loving friends I wont name here because they choose to remain anonymousyou know who you are because your stories appear in the book. Thank you to Angelica, Ken, Lisa, Lora, Malik, Robyn, Samantha, Steven, Susan, and William, who appear in the book under different names. I truly appreciate all of you for trusting me with your stories.

And to my Aussie friends, whom Ive loved from afar for decades and who are featured in a number of storiesthank you for staying the course.

To the beta readers who generously reviewed an early version of the book: Jonathan Brady, Tiffany Credle-Crafton, Susanne Fest, Emily Flahertyyour contributions were invaluable.

To the dear monks who live in the monastery in the canyon and to my lovely womens group for your wisdom and caring.

To my amazing parents, Doreen and Jack, and my family for contributing so much to my lifeespecially Elaine for her big-hearted support for this book. And to John, the incredible person who shares my adventure on a daily basis; I love you.

Finally, I offer my heartfelt gratitude to my meditation teacherthank you for generously providing deep insights and ongoing guidance.

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W hen do you think hell be here? a friend asked, topping up her wineglass. Unfortunately, I had no idea. A group of friends were celebrating my birthday at a trendy West Hollywood restaurantcolorful menus, brick walls, garlic breadsticksand we were all waiting for Mr. Late to show up. His birthday gift to me, hed declared a few days earlier, was treating everyone at this dinner party to their choice of exotic dessert. But he hadnt arrived yet, and wed been there for a while now.

Where are you? Were going to order our entrees. Call me, OK? Another of my messages went straight to voice mail.

So, we sipped wine ate the food when it came chatted. One of my friends complained about her lack of work and, in an aside to me, obsessed about her current boyfriend. Another talked about how she couldnt stand her boss who, she said, spent more work time shopping and networking than she did on the job itself. Someone else bitched that the long hours he spent running around on his daytime production work left him no space for writing.

Each time the restaurant door swung open, my head snapped toward it, hoping it was him. I felt embarrassed that Mr. Late hadnt arrivedand hurt. Hed promised to be there before the other guests. Hed promised on his familys favorite pets grave. Promised. This time I had almost believed him.

He and I had met decades before, when I was editing the entertainment section for a weekly newspaper and gave him his first freelance assignment. You were the first person who really reached out to me, he once told me. You made me feel welcome.

He was entertaining and smart; he was my wingman: never romantic but often around. Except when he wasntwhen he was traveling or not returning my calls because he had fixated on some new flame. You know I go loopy for perky brunettes, hed tell me after the romance had hit the skids and he wanted to pick up our friendship again. He always managed to wheedle his way back into my good graces. Maybe I was a fool for his charm. Well, I wasnt charmed now.

I got up from the table. Im going outside. Ill see if hes around. I wanted to leave him a message that well, lets say I preferred no one else heard. Hey, youre so late, you dont need to bother coming. Ill buy my own desserts. You promised, and you screwed up. So, dont even come.

He immediately called back: Wait, wait, Im nearly there. I thought the restaurant was someplace else. It mustve moved. Ill make it up to you. Go ahead and order dessert. Ill be there in a sec.

Birthdays are important to me. The birthday celebration is a ritual that gives me a sense of belonging, somewhere, anywhere. It reminds me of the ties I have to my family, even though I left home at age seventeen, heading off across Australias endless Hay Plains on a Greyhound bus to college fifteen hundred miles away.

Since then, Ive spent only a handful of birthdays with my family. I rarely returned home. Either I was in the middle of a semester or living overseas. Ive lived in three countries, eight cities, thirty households and countingmany shared with friends.

Birthdays always mattered. When any of my college buddies turned twenty-one, wed all dress up in our fanciest thrift-shop gear and descend on an elegant restaurant, ordering dinners that cost us each a weeks pay: eating frogs legs or snails, tasting baba ghanoush and hummus for the first time, sipping real Turkish coffee. These friends were my adventurous, kindred spirits, and I adored them.

I lived in England for a year to hang out with a friend. On a visit to America, I was convinced to stay on by another friend, who demanded to know why, if I wanted to write screenplays, I would return to drizzly old London!

For a while I lived in Santa Barbara, hanging out with artists and with movers and shakers who were, like me, poised to leave this beach town for bigger cities. I still wanted to write movies, but I landed in Los Angeles in the middle of a writers strike. Then, through many twists and turns and fateful meetings, I ended up as a producer for televisionfor