How Do You Define Success?

And what does it have to do with belts and shoes?

This is an important question, not because you need to know, but so that you’ll recognize it (and celebrate it) when you get there. For me, success is I write stories I love, and people write and tell me they love my stories. For years, this simple definition has been enough. But sometimes, I forget.

A few days ago, I attended a book signing at a gorgeous home overlooking the coast in San Clemente. Sharon Eubank, who wrote, Doing Small Things With Great Love, spoke of her charitable work.

A friend told Sharon that I also write books. Sharon admitted that writing was difficult for her, but she loved meeting with people and talking about her book. I said, and that’s how we’re different. I love writing, and have zero interest in meeting people and talking about my books.

Of course, it was easy to envy the gorgeous home near the San Clemente coast. It was also easy to envy Sharon’s job that takes her to the corners of the world helping those in need of the basics—food, water, shelter. And I’ll admit, I also envied the sixty-plus people lining up to buy her $27 dollar book. (My books, by comparison, cost much less and crowds of people aren’t lining up to buy them.)

This experience reminded me of a blog post I wrote way back in 2013. Here it is:

A number of years ago, I found a belt at my favorite store that I desperately wanted—but I couldn’t justify the price. Months later, a friend invited me on a shopping trip and mentioned that my favorite store was having a blowout sale. All the way there, I thought about that belt and how perfectly it would coordinate with so many of my outfits.

When we arrived, I was thrilled to discover the belt had been marked down 70 percent. There was only one left—and it was my size.

I was delighted…for about fifteen minutes.

Then my delight was swallowed up by the fact that my friend bought nine pairs of shoes.

I knew I should have been happy. I didn’t need nine new pairs of shoes. I already had plenty of shoes. What I really needed was a belt—and I got one. And I loved it.

I should have been happy.

Instead, I let shoe envy consume me.

I still struggle with something very similar—though it’s no longer apparel-related.

I have a friend I deeply admire who decided to self-publish a few months before I made the same decision. For me, it was a giant, terrifying leap. (If you’re interested, I’ve reposted a couple of blog posts from that season of angst that I’ll be sharing over the next few days.) When I finally decided to self-publish, I told myself that with millions of indie authors out there, probably no one besides family and close friends would ever find—or read—my books.

And I was okay with that.

In a sea of not-so-wholesome entertainment, I simply wanted to offer stories for people like me—family-friendly, grandmother-approved novels. (And I fully recognize that people like me are not exactly the sands of the sea.)

So I did that.

When I first published Stealing Mercy, I sold more than two hundred copies. (I have a very large family.) Now I have nearly five books out, and more than 60,000 people have downloaded them. I say downloaded because most of those copies were free—but still. Sixty thousand. I don’t even know sixty thousand people.

Stealing Mercy has spent more than eleven weeks in the Top 100 of Amazon’s free historical romance category.

By every measure, I exceeded my original goal. By a long shot.

I should be happy.

(I am happy.)

But…envy.

Remember my self-publishing friend, Debra Holland? Her books have made the USA Today bestseller list. She earns tens of thousands of dollars a month.

Oh, envy.

I owe Debra a tremendous debt of gratitude. Without her taking the plunge first, I might never have self-published. I learned from her—and I’m still learning from her. Watching her very, very closely.

And sometimes, if I’m honest, it hurts.

But other times, I think about how remarkable it is that people who aren’t related to me read, enjoy, and review my books. I remember the belt.

Just as I didn’t need nine new pairs of shoes, I don’t need national recognition. I don’t need more money. (And since I’m being gut-wrenchingly honest, I’ll admit—it’s hard to say that.)

Sometimes—like today—I need to remind myself of my original goal.

Success isn’t nine pairs of shoes. It’s the belt—the thing you truly wanted, the thing that fits your life and your calling. If I measure my journey by someone else’s closet, I will always come up short. But when I measure it against the dream I started with—to write stories I love and bless even a small circle of readers—I realize I already have exactly what I hoped for.

But a measure of success is being able to look envy in the face and call it a liar.