this is a public service announcement.

This is a Public Service Announcement.

Stop scoffing at how the subtitle of this book includes both "advice" and "love" and is written by someone called Sugar. Forget everything you think you know about advice columns. Tuck away your feelings about how silly they are. Set fire to the idea that only desperate people write in to them. Whether you are a 24-year-old living far away from home or a 62-year-old who has never left home, there is some part of your life that needs both advice and love. From Sugar. Accept that no matter how finely stitched or tightly wound or perfectly scheduled your life is, there is always room for more love.

Google Map your local library or used bookstore or not-used bookstore. Go there. If you can't go right now, put a Post-It in your paper planner or an appointment in your iCal so you can go as soon as you have an hour of freedom from your job, your other job, your responsibilities, or your other responsibilities. Get it in your hands. (Don’t use an e-reader.)

If it's not there, put it on hold. Request that another copy be ordered for you and shipped to the store, or better yet, to your front door. Don’t wait and return in a week or two or when you know you'll have more time to read. You won't go back, because you'll come up with all sorts of excuses as to why you don't have enough time right now. Right now will turn into this summer will turn into this year will turn into this life. There is never enough time in life to read things that aren't gross bills reminding you of the capitalist patriarchy, or the airline credit card offers that show up in your mailbox every Monday, or the textbooks you're supposed to want to read because their titles match your future degree. Get it now and find the time later. Make a habit of reading one chapter before bed or getting up one hour early to sit in your lime green chair with the next chapter. 

When you have the book in your hands, flip through the pages. Read what Sugar says inside the front cover. Look at the empty margins, the crisp corners, and the meager 26 letters filling 353 pages with thousands of words and maybe just as many revelations for your life. Now move the book into one hand and grab a pen with the other. A highlighter works too. Whisper a little apology to the book; because by the time you get to this line on page 15 -- “The best thing you can possibly do with your life is to tackle the motherfucking shit out of love” -- you will already have covered it with ink and tears. You will have smudged it with your greasy face oils as you buried your face deep into that sentence and breathed in its truth. 

Dog-ear the top corners so you can use that quote on page 130 for an Instagram caption, or so you can easily find 'The Ghost Ship That Didn’t Carry Us’ to read out loud to your roommate one rainy night, or so you can remind yourself of whatever you need to be reminded of next week or next year. The questions you need to ask yourself will come hurtling through these pages straight into your gut. They will lead you to answers that have been there all along, but have been in hiding or hibernation because they will bring a devastating but maybe-much-needed hell that may or may not turn into a definitely-much-needed heaven. Turn to page 155 to be reminded that "every last one of us can do better than give up." Wherever this book brings you to in your life, it will be okay.

Put it on a shelf, or better yet, near your bed. Pull it down when you are full of uninhibited joy and naïve optimism, and pick it up when you are completely drained of those things. Especially then. Read your favorite column, the one that speaks to you and resonates with you and makes the world seem a bit brighter. Read it again. Read it one more time, out loud to yourself. Tell your friends about it. Make them sit criss-cross-applesauce on the floor with you or on the other side of the FaceTime screen with you as you say the salutation ("Dear Sugar") and until you say the closing ("Yours, Sugar"). They will listen to Sugar's words. They will listen to yours.

If you find that this book was not for you, give it to someone who might make it theirs. Let it feed them. If you find that this book was perfect and made for you, still give it to someone so they can make it theirs too. There is enough for everyone.

Eventually, you will find another book. Get a title from a friend, mentor, or stranger on the bus. Ask them about one that has moved them, rattled them, taken care of them in a way that only books can. Remember the title. Write it down. Thank them for it. There is nothing stronger and more intimate than recommending a title to someone, and having them read it.

Then, if they ask for a recommendation in return, share this -- or your very own -- Public Service Announcement for your favorite tiny, beautiful book.