May I expand on that?
As I wrote yesterday, I don’t regret my confession on this public–if unread 🙂 –forum. I think it helps to drag the ugly stuff out in the open. Unpleasant feelings tend to fade when exposed to fresh air. Couple that with the passage of time and events transpiring therein, and one will likely find herself looking at her lot in a far more positive light.
Case in point: today. This morning, I languished over a cup of coffee, emailed some good friends, then got myself dressed. Not soon after, I slogged through our snow/slush-covered roads to my mom’s house, drove her to the doctor and grocery store, took her out to lunch, drove home, put crap away, and spent some quality time playing with my beloved kitty cat. I’m at peace today, with one caveat. Hence, today’s post.
I failed to mention something in yesterday’s post and for that, I am taking myself to task. When I wrote about feeling resentful and then, jealous, of my fellow writers at Aye-dub who have reached goals they’d set for themselves, I neglected to mention how happy I initially felt for those fine writers. No, not just initially. I was, and still am, thrilled by their successes; very happy for each and every one of those people. I know some of them well. We’ve beta’d for each other, had fun together, I’ve helped with their queries and they’ve helped me with mine. There was, and is, nothing but joy and happiness in my heart when I read that Authors X, Y, or Z finally, finally are being rewarded for their efforts. I know how hard they’ve worked to get where they are.
It was only later, when I was alone with my incomplete revisions and dark thoughts, that angst sprang forth from my hardened little heart, like some evil little beastie. It tarnished my perspective and their golden moments. No rhyme or reason to it aside from me, giving in to my own selfishness, doubts, impatience, frustration, and fears. As Jen wrote yesterday, it comes with the package. Questioning our abilities, our work, and our chances is something we writers tend to do.
Speaking for myself now, it happens more than I want to admit. Yesterday, I put into words what I suspect a fair number of writers think: it’s tough sometimes being on the outside looking in, seeing the joy and delight and all that wonderful stuff being experienced by somebody close and not being able to taste it. Especially when we all know that getting an agent, and getting our stuff published, is not a given, and that even the best writers among us many never make it to the next level. Writing can be a tough business. It’s not for the faint of heart.
In the last couple of weeks, as I’ve struggled through the final revisions of my novel, I’ve found myself becoming disheartened. Frustration fueled my burgeoning unhappiness, and I began to view the success of my fellow writers as a yardstick against my own perceived failures.
But today, I see their successes as proof that good things happen to good people; fine writers, all. If it can happen to them, surely it can happen to me. What a difference a day makes, huh? Anyhoo, I just wanted to set that record straight. And, just in case anybody out there wonders if my joy at their shared happy news was strained, falsified, or otherwise ringing hollow, let me assure you, I was and am very happy for you, for each and every one of you. You are an inspiration to me, and to all of us writers waiting on the wings, breath held and fingers crossed, hoping.