Social media is a lie: A blog about transparency

I was recently invited to host a table at a Barnes & Noble store in the suburbs of Chicago. After years of pouring my heart into my books—working tirelessly to get them into readers’ hands—I truly believed this was going to be a huge win. A real, full-circle moment. This was the Barnes & Noble. A massive store in a bustling shopping center. And I had a prime time slot: 1:00 to 3:00 p.m. on a beautiful spring Sunday afternoon.

Sounds promising, right?

And if you saw the photos I posted on social media, you’d probably think it was a great day. There I am, smiling beside my books, standing proudly under the B&N sign with my daughter, looking every bit the successful author living her dream.

But the truth behind the camera lens tells a different story.

I sat at a table placed directly at the store’s entrance. And in full honesty, I’d estimate only 10% of shoppers even looked in my direction. Most walked right past me without a glance, headed straight to the adjacent bestseller table. They came for Emily Henry. They came for Abby Jimenez. They came for Tessa Bailey. They didn’t come for Julie Navickas—the local author with a roll-up banner, a folding table, and a wagon full of dreams.

I sold four books. Two of them were purchased by the kind booksellers who worked there.

Now, to be clear, this isn’t a post to criticize Barnes & Noble, its staff, or even the shoppers. I’m writing this for two reasons:

1. Social media is a lie.

The photos I shared from that afternoon paint a beautiful, filtered picture: an author joyfully connecting with readers, building her brand, living her dream. That post earned over 100 likes on Instagram in four days—my highest-performing post to date.

But the truth? Behind that smile was someone fighting back tears, feeling like a fraud. Like a failure. Social media is curated. It's posed. It’s filtered—sometimes literally, often emotionally. We crop out the disappointment, blur the rejection, and brighten the loneliness.

I’m sharing this because I believe in transparency. I want to remind you that what we see on our screens is rarely the full story. So next time you scroll, take a moment to remember: not everything is as it seems.

2. Please, just be kind.

This part has nothing to do with Instagram filters and everything to do with human decency.

That afternoon, I felt completely invisible. I caught myself adjusting my chair just to hide behind my banner. Out of the hundred or so people who walked past me, a few offered polite hellos. Most didn’t make eye contact. Some browsed my books without acknowledging me. And a surprising number acted like I wasn’t even there.

What happened to kindness? To curiosity? To “Midwestern Nice”?

The next time you see an artist—an author, a musician, a painter—bravely putting their work into the world, please… acknowledge them. Even if you’re not buying what they’re offering, your kindness matters. Say hello. Compliment their display. Ask what their work is about. Sign up for their newsletter. Take a photo. Share a post. Tell a friend. Every small gesture helps. And trust me—it means everything to the person sitting at that lonely table.

Putting your art into the world is an act of courage. It’s vulnerability at its rawest. And all we ask in return is to be seen.

So, what did I take away from that quiet afternoon at Barnes & Noble? More than I ever expected. Sure, I left with most of my books still packed in the wagon—but I also walked away with a renewed understanding of what it means to show up, to create, and to persist even when no one’s clapping.

Being an author isn’t about a two-hour sales window. It’s about trusting your voice, believing in your stories, and continuing to share them, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep showing up. And I’ll keep believing that, eventually, my words will land in the right hands. Because they matter. And so do I.