The great James Dashner said recently, at the LTUE conference, that jealousy is a great motivator in this business.
I wonder who was the focus of his jealously when he wrote Maze Runner. I do know that envy of JD has poked and prodded me until I'm black and blue. And again, today, I was swept away by a monsterous wave of the stuff when I heard good news for another local writer.
Am I happy for this writer? Yes. I'm exstatic, really. And is there enough room on the NYTBSA for us both? Of course. This writer is not my competition.
What do I do about my jealousy?
I RANT AND RAVE AT MY FAMILY UNTIL THEY ARE HAPPY TO HAVE ME LOCK MYSELF IN MY OFFICE to pound out my frustration on the keyboard. They're not so interested that I succeed as a writer as they are to see me remove my moody self from their peaceful existences--as long as I come out in time to make dinner.
And I'll tell you what. I may come out for only that for a while. This bug up my butt is planning on a full-body possession and it's got a good head start. I may not come out until the NBT-next big thing-is finished!
So, share with the class. How do you handle your professional jealousy? Don't even pretend you aren't affected by it. There is no lying permitted here.
Confess!
Showing posts with label hermits. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hermits. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
And God said: DO NOT DISTURB!
We are so together in our solitude, aren't we?
We are all on that same road to publication, yet no two vehicles are alike. Some fly down the road in a convertible, smiling and waving and sure they're headed in the right direction, though it's hard to see with all that hair whipping in their faces.
Some roll their windows up tight and avoid eye contact with anyone they pass or anyone who passes them.
Some walk and talk and encourage others. Some take their time to help lost writers plot a course on their map, then strike out again, only to stop and help yet another writer because they cannot possibly ignore the need.
And sometimes, when the road is dark, we circle our wagons and have a giggle around a campfire, forgetting who is driving what, bonding as travelers, not writers.
But we are alone. In the throngs of authors and dreamers shuffling from one writer's workshop to the next, sitting on top of each other in seats meant for children, we are...alone. Wherever it is we end up--indie pubbing, traditional pubbing, or living in one of the six big castles in New York--we get there alone. Those who squee for us, throw terrific launch parties for us, or buy us cheesecake for every rejection, stand beside us, of course. But when we arrive or fail to arrive, we are alone.
In a library full of writers, we write alone. We edit alone. We meet our characters alone. We are rejected or loved depending on how hard we worked in solitude. It is the ultimate test.
I wonder, when God created, if he closed himself off, for a time, to come up with something brilliant. I wonder what the sign said--the one he hung on his door.
We are all on that same road to publication, yet no two vehicles are alike. Some fly down the road in a convertible, smiling and waving and sure they're headed in the right direction, though it's hard to see with all that hair whipping in their faces.
Some roll their windows up tight and avoid eye contact with anyone they pass or anyone who passes them.
Some walk and talk and encourage others. Some take their time to help lost writers plot a course on their map, then strike out again, only to stop and help yet another writer because they cannot possibly ignore the need.
And sometimes, when the road is dark, we circle our wagons and have a giggle around a campfire, forgetting who is driving what, bonding as travelers, not writers.
But we are alone. In the throngs of authors and dreamers shuffling from one writer's workshop to the next, sitting on top of each other in seats meant for children, we are...alone. Wherever it is we end up--indie pubbing, traditional pubbing, or living in one of the six big castles in New York--we get there alone. Those who squee for us, throw terrific launch parties for us, or buy us cheesecake for every rejection, stand beside us, of course. But when we arrive or fail to arrive, we are alone.
In a library full of writers, we write alone. We edit alone. We meet our characters alone. We are rejected or loved depending on how hard we worked in solitude. It is the ultimate test.
I wonder, when God created, if he closed himself off, for a time, to come up with something brilliant. I wonder what the sign said--the one he hung on his door.
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