Midnights, March: 13

I made the mistake of reading another author's newsletter.

I'm ashamed to admit this, but I can be a real Petty Penelope at times. A real Envious Emile. The green-eyed monster is my emergency contact, and it encourages all my worst impulses. 

So when I read that this self-published author whom I like and admire is being picked up by a reputable foreign publisher, I felt happy for that author. I did. They've worked hard. Their books are great. They deserve all this success and more.

But…then…again.

Wouldn't it feel good, in a twisted sort of way, if they weren't quite as successful as they're turning out to be? Wouldn't a big dollop of schadenfreude just hit the spot right about now? The better angel of my nature has been on a smoke break for a while now, and it's given me plenty of time to nurture a raging inferiority complex. It's beginning to fester nicely.

Listen, green has always been my color, but this is hardly a flattering shade. If I put half as much energy into my own work instead of gorging myself on the sourest of grapes, maybe I'd have another book published by now. 

That is harsh. But no less true for it.