I was fourteen, awkward in the kind of way that only a teenager in braces and pink grosgrain headbands can be, when I first met Savannah. Well, not Savannah herself, but the city as it was unveiled to me in the pages of John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Before that, my world was defined by Atlanta’s crisp, bustling energy—a city constantly on its way to becoming something bigger and shinier. Savannah, in contrast, was all slow drawls and whispered secrets, draped in Spanish moss and sultry humidity.

I didn’t expect a book filled with murder investigations, Savannah socialites, and drag queens to fundamentally shift the way I thought about the craft of connection. But somehow, all that Southern mystique held up a mirror that forever changed how I navigate relationships—romantic or otherwise—and taught me a lesson or two about authenticity, curiosity, and the art of storytelling.

Let me explain.

Charm Isn't About Perfection—It's About Mystery

Savannah, as painted by Berendt, is less a city and more of a character. It smirks knowingly in the background of every story and seems to have this uncanny ability to be beautiful and flawed, bold and restrained, inviting and standoffish—all at once. It’s the human equivalent of someone who leaves their party a little messy because they just don’t care that much about the details, and somehow, that’s more charming. That layered complexity is what drew me in.

Too often, especially when I was younger, I believed relationships were about putting forward the shiniest version of myself. Best manners? Check. Eloquent one-liners? Check. Ensuring I laughed just enough at every joke? Double-check. But reading Midnight showed me what Savannah’s most captivating characters seemed to understand instinctively: the magic of mystery.

There’s an allure in the untold. The stories you don’t share immediately. The pauses where questions linger and someone can lean in out of curiosity. My teenage self didn’t know this yet—not when I was dramatically overexplaining my interests to the boy two desks over in algebra class (he did not care about my obsession with Jane Austen adaptations, unfortunately). But something about Savannah’s subtle allure stuck with me. It whispered, “Let them figure you out on their own time.” Translation? Be real, but don’t spill the whole bag of secrets at once.

Connection Thrives in Curiosity

At the heart of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil are its people—real-life figures so vivid they leap from the page like dinner guests you’re meeting for the first time. There’s the elusive Jim Williams, a bonafide enigma with his perfectly tailored suits, grandiose parties, and decidedly shady side. There’s Chablis Deveau, the unforgettable drag queen who wears her identity unapologetically, making every conversation electric. And Minnie’s, the old-school bar where gossip flows thicker than molasses, feels like the epicenter of everyone’s lives.

What struck me most was how Berendt approached every story with curiosity. He wasn’t judgmental, nor was he trying to airbrush anyone’s imperfections to fit a neat narrative about the genteel South. He observed first, asked questions later, and made room for contradictions.

Over the years, I’ve tried to take this same approach to my relationships. Whether it’s on a first date or sitting across from my best friend at brunch, I remind myself to get out of my own head and into the wonder of someone else’s world. What makes them tick? What’s their greatest secret fear? (Okay, fine—maybe I save that one for the third date.) But the point stands: Our most meaningful connections come not from rehearsed conversations but from allowing people to be fascinatingly, uniquely themselves.

I began asking better questions, too. Not just the basics like “Where did you grow up?” or “What’s your go-to karaoke song?” (though the latter is very revealing). I started leaning into the slightly offbeat—“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever Googled?” or “If you could time-travel to any decade, which one and why?” Watching someone light up with stories they never get to tell? That’s the good stuff.

Imperfection Is Where the Magic Happens

What made Midnight impactful wasn’t just its grand personalities but its jagged edges. Beneath the glamorous façade of Southern charm were lives fractured in ways that felt both scandalous and achingly human. Affairs, betrayals, insecurities bubbling just beneath the surface—it was messy, messy life. But messy was also what made Savannah, and its residents, so unforgettable.

The relationships that have meant the most to me are the ones where nothing was airbrushed or perfect. I think of my husband (who has a penchant for telling the world’s corniest dad jokes, even though we don’t have kids yet). Early on, I might’ve rolled my eyes, but now they’re the things I treasure because they remind me—and anyone he meets—that he’s never trying to be anything other than his wonderful, weird self. I’ll take that joyfully imperfect authenticity over polished perfection any day.

For the longest time, I thought I had to hide the parts of myself that might scare someone away—the fact that I get competitive in board games (like, rage-spiral competitive) or that there’s still a stuffed penguin stashed on my closet shelf from middle school. But messy details are where the magic lives. After all, who connects over perfection? It’s the stories—the time your soufflé collapsed dramatically during Thanksgiving dinner or the trip to the beach that ended in an epic sunburn twinset—that create moments worth remembering.

Lessons in the Garden: How Midnight Changes the Way You See Connection

Here’s the thing about a book: Sometimes it sneaks up on you, quiet at first, until you look back years later and realize it rewired your perspective. That’s what Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil did for me. It taught me to embrace the quirks and complications of the people around me—and maybe more importantly, my own.

When I think about why I believe in romance and human connection at all, it’s not because of the grand gestures (we’ve all seen enough rom-coms for that). It’s because of the smaller, more unexpected moments: Someone packing your favorite snack for a road trip. Learning that they can belt out Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” without missing a note (or a beat of enthusiasm). It’s about the delight of uncovering who they are—one layer at a time.

So, if you take anything away from Savannah, let it be this: Be a little mysterious. Get curious about other people. And remember, perfection is overrated. What makes us magnetic isn’t the shiny exterior but the vibrant, messy tangle of everything underneath. Because, as Savannah showed me, that’s where the stories live. And the stories, after all, are what linger.