The Making and Keeping of Adult Friends & The Sad State of Friendship in Literature

Is that a mouthful? Sure! Will this be a little bit unwieldy? You bet! But it’ll be fun to unpack all the same.

Adult friendship in literature is depressingly (to me) underexplored.¹ This might sound like an overstatement—friendships exist on the page, sure—but they often serve as plot devices or character mirrors, not as deeply drawn relationships in their own right. Instead, friendships seem to exist to reveal something about the protagonist: loyalty, betrayal, or the inevitable romantic arc. Rarely are friendships the heart of the story. From my perch as a judgy reader, I can’t help but wonder: why do adult friendships feel so misrepresented in literature? And why do I find myself craving their honest, nuanced depiction?

Take, for example, the typical heroine in an Emily Henry or Christina Lauren novel. Or perhaps in a Colleen Hoover, Gillian Flynn, Sarah J Maas, or Sally Rooney story. Ambitious yet lonely, she’s often isolated by her drive to succeed. While this dynamic resonates—perhaps because so many of us relate to the tension between ambition and connection—it often sidesteps the full reality of adult friendship. Where are the messy, dynamic friendships that require maintenance, vulnerability, and mutual effort? Where are the friendships that, while not romantic, hold their own kind of intimacy and weight?

In real life, friendships don’t just slip into the background.² They can be transformative, consuming, and deeply fulfilling. They can also be complicated and fraught with miscommunication and insecurity, especially as adults. But books often don’t reflect this. Rather, I feel books have flattened them. Is it because we’ve collectively deprioritized community? Have we isolated ourselves to the point the bonds of friendship feel impossible to acheive—or harder to write?

I don’t want to believe that’s true. I hold out hope that our capacity for meaningful connection hasn’t diminished. The concept of Anam Cara, a Gaelic term for “soul friend,” speaks to this yearning. I first encountered it in

Susan Dennard

’s Truthwitch, where friendship—challenging yet fulfilling—takes center stage. The story gave me a pang of recognition and longing. I’ve always craved that kind of friendship: one where each makes the other better, one where they are two halves of a whole. How wholesome and lovely and juicy!

And yet, I don’t know if I’ve ever truly felt that. I love my friends; they are the most incredible people in the world, guaranteed, but I still feel wholly separate, wholly my own. We share updates, inside jokes, and memories. They text me when “Party in the USA” comes on the radio, they see someone apply a disgusting amount of mayo to a sandwich (team mayonnaise forever!), or they read a Sally Rooney book. But I’ve never had the hive mind closeness and constant contact, or the ride-or-die friendships you’d find in Sex and the City. Perhaps my idea of adult friendship has always been too romanticized.

Still, there’s something undeniably poignant about adult friendships precisely because they’re harder to form and sustain. They require bravery, trust, and time—resources often stretched thin once you have ~responsibilities~. There’s a vulnerability in putting yourself out there, in wanting to be trusted and to matter to someone new. When the reciprocity isn’t there, it stings. Especially you want to be there, want to be a good friend, want to help.

Is it a little self-serving to want to be there for a friend? MY husband would tell you it’s selfless and loving, but my overthinking brain may insist it’s done out of fear or lack. To be a great friend means you’ll have one for when your own times get tough… right? RIGHT?? Why can’t I find reprieve from that fear?

My brain is a crazy place to live, but this is some of the nuance I crave. The second-guessing, the unknowing, and still, maybe the healing.

And yet, there’s also such joy in those connections: the thrill of being seen by someone who doesn’t know your history. Those embarrassing times when, the fact your parents divorced and why and maybe one of them is gay, the high school rumors that you lost your virginity on your family’s boat—these all become stories you can tell, you can control, with laughter over a bottle of wine. These new friendships, fresh and unburdened, hold so much possibility. They’re hopeful.

But they’re also complex, and their challenges deserve space in literature. Why do we see so few books that explore this nuance? Why do so many stories reduce friendship to a side note—or conflate it with romance, as though friendship is merely a precursor to “something greater”?

Even stories ostensibly centered around friendship often fall short. Take The Thursday Murder Club. While delightful, the friendships in the book are facilitated by circumstance: the characters are in the same retirement home, starting fresh together, with a weird common interest. That pressure-cooker environment forces intimacy. But what about the middle-aged characters, juggling partners, children, and careers? Where are their stories of friendships tested and maintained?

I yearn for books that explore the full spectrum of adult friendship. The insecurity of making new friends. The second-guessing that comes with maintaining them. The pure joy of connection balanced against the fear of vulnerability. The friends that bicker and fight? That have strong opinions about the people they sleep with?

Why is this so rare?

One reason, perhaps, is that real friendships are hard to capture. They’re messy, not easily slotted into tidy narrative arcs. But that’s precisely what makes them so rich, so worth writing about. I crave stories of anxious, insecure women (me!) trying to navigate friendship in adulthood, akin to Eleanor Oliphant’s journey in Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine.

For now, I’m left wistful, feeling a kind of Fernweh—a longing for friendships I’ve never quite had, and stories I’ve never quite read. It’s not loneliness, exactly. It’s a desire for the richness, the texture, the joy and difficulty of deep connection.

Maybe I’ll find those stories someday. Maybe I’ll write them. Until then, I’ll keep hoping for novels where friendships don’t merely support the story—they are the story.

Book Review & Wine Pairing

Finally finished the These Godly Lies duology by R. Raeta. Loved it. Beautiful prose, an imaginative story, a touching romance, and a wee bit of fantasy (more of a mythology tilt) all make for one of my favorites of the year. The story takes place throughout eight centuries, with every chapter depicting a new era and a new location. It had a soft way of looking in on history, as if through a window with mottled glass. You get the picture, but the whole scene doesn’t have to be painted out for you. The main character, Anna, experiences much of her very long life like this… always slightly removed from the world and its inhabitants. I feel like I am not doing this book justice, so needless to say, if you enjoyed V. E. Schwab’s The Invisible of Addie La Rue, you will also love this.

Due to the sweet nature and classic yet timeless aspect of the story, I’m excited to pair this duology with The Rare Wine Company’s Historic Series Madeira, Charleston Sercial (say that 10 times fast while drinking). A dessert wine begging to be savoured.

Writing & Querying Update

This week was humbling. I sent out 20 queries for Susie Sweetheart is Back From the Dead and received 5 rejections (including one lovely rejection following a full manuscript request). I would like to do dramatic readings of said rejections to make myself feel better, but I don’t think

Jessica Sorentino

will approve 🙃

Picking myself up and dusting myself off, I registered for a Writer’s Day Workshop in December where I can pitch to multiple agents over Zoom… I think I’m better at pitching in person rather than cold querying. But maybe people just can’t say no to my face.

In other news, I finally began my murder board for McMurder and I am so excited to dig in. Following a poll on my bookstagram account, some people are just fine with quite a few suspects, so I’m going to deliver! If you’re one of those people who prefers fewer characters in a closed-room mystery, I’m going to change your mind. Promise.

The characters are weird and lively and so wonderfully flawed. I love bright characters that jump off the page and who you can’t help but love for all their quirkiness. All the best people are weird.

Sidebar - Are WIPs italicized? Probs not… but I just don’t care! Manifesting publication!

Other things I’ve inhaled as of late:

A Schitt’s Creek rewatch | can’t stop listening to Goldie Boutilier’s song, The Ways I Punish Myself | The Will of the Many by James Islington - I LOVED this book :)

Until next time!

xx, bb

1. Maybe I’m not reading the right books.

2. Well, they can… but then you lose those friendships.