I belong to The Well and mostly frequent a really good freelancer group there, where I am middling to low on a totem pole that includes regular writers for Vogue, Wired and Salon but also people who don’t really see their byline in the national pubs very often, if at all. I love being a part of it.
Today, I read an announcement that a fellow byliner just sold her first novel in a “major deal”. I was over the moon for her, honestly. It’s so cool to see a first novel sell, and it gives me such hope.
Here’s the thing–I thought she was one person. A person much higher, again, on that totem pole than me, with a memoir published–but also older, with older kids, more life experience, etcetera. Someone I could sort of aspire to, only without the disease that led to the memoir.
But I googled her, and found that she was in fact WAY up on that totem pole, vastly more glamorous than I will ever be, beautiful, fabulous, a bit of a boldfaced name. No kids.
And I had this huge, huge moment of something for which, once again, there must be an ugly german word. Envy, yes. But it’s just–I can’t get there from here. I can never get there from here. And the little writing boost I’d had–the keep going, it’s possible, keep going–shot straight out the window.
I know, don’t give up hope, yadda. Got it. I can still get SOMEWHERE. I just can’t get THERE. And there, in this house full of sobbing children that I must go and tend and take to a Chinese restaurant right now, looks kind of good.
Don’t punish me for that, fate.