I sold a beret on Facebook Marketplace. I’d had it for a very long time and only wore it a few times. This particular brand sells new for anywhere between $60 and $95—wow! I picked $20 as a fair price, and a buyer reached out quickly.
I told her to come by after 4:00. The afternoon was still warm, so I took the opportunity to spend some time outside, collecting marigold seeds and tending to the remnants of my garden. At 4:00 sharp, a well-put-together woman with white hair and great posture—shorter and older than me—got out of her car and strolled up my walk.
“Are you a beret purchaser?” I asked to confirm.
“That depends. Are you a beret seller?”
“I am indeed.” Confirmation complete.
I shook her hand and introduced myself. She offered her first name in return. I invited her inside.
At my front door sits an antique typewriter. It’s very old and has seen better days, but I like it as a patio piece—a decoration on my front step. I also love the symbolism of that ancient word processor; it says, A writer lives here. Since I’ve wholeheartedly embraced the title of author and writer, I think it’s a fun addition to the entrance.
She pointed. “Oh, I like that!”
My outdoor décor was achieving exactly the effect I’d hoped for.
I tapped a random key. “I’m a writer,” I said, then led her inside.
“So am I—a journalist! Well, I was. I worked for the Globe and Mail and the CBC.” Oh, fancy, I thought.
I’ll be honest—with her sharing, I took a small step down the path of inferiority. She was a real writer, paid to write for reputable news agencies. She went on to say she’s now writing books—a memoir for someone—but finds it tiring.
She asked about my writing. I told her I’m a YA author of a series that’s been nominated for and has won awards locally and internationally. I also mentioned my memoir, which was a finalist for the Whistler Independent Book Awards.
We continued chatting. I told her I’m a high school teacher, a writer, and an artist. She was in awe—wondering how I manage to do it all, including tending my garden. She seemed genuinely impressed by my ability to juggle so much.
Lesson #1
For a brief moment, I let myself feel inferior to this retired journalist. But very quickly, I reminded myself that we are both writers—offering words in different ways, for different reasons, to different audiences. No one is less than anyone else. It’s like art: artists work in a variety of mediums and styles—realistic, impressionistic, mixed-media, abstract. It’s all art, and each serves its own purpose.
Lesson #2
This lovely woman reminded me that anyone can feel inferior. She expressed it subtly when she asked how I manage everything without getting exhausted. Likely, she was doing some comparison of her own.
Lesson #3 (or the reminder)
Comparison is truly the thief of joy.
So, I am reminded that I am an author. I am a writer. I am a busy woman doing a lot of things—creative work and educational work. And I’m so glad I didn’t wander further down that path of inadequacy. I’m so glad she came to me—to purchase my beret and, unintentionally, to teach me a lesson.
As always, thank you for reading, Lovelies
Angie Counios 
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