Growing up poor, I knew a lot about bitterness. I was bitter that other kids got to go on vacations, got to have cable TV, got air conditioning and dinner served every night. Mine was the pure bitterness of a child, the black-and-white unfairness of a melodrama heroine.
And my dad looked at me and said, “Jesus, kid, there’s people who don’t have a roof over their heads.”
No one likes being reminded that they aren’t the heroine of the Most Unfair Tragedy Of Them All, especially not an eight-year-old, but I eventually learned to look for the people who had it worse and stop staring at the ones who had it better.
It’s a lesson I’ve had to learn all over again as an author, and I’m still learning it. Every three-book-deal and major award and no-open-call anthology has me struggling to silence the “but why not meeeee?!?” crawling up my throat like a centipede.
I’m frankly stunned my fellow writers don’t spend more time complaining on social media! How do they gush their congratulations so convincingly? Are they really all so happy without a trace of bitterness? Am I the only asshole?
The obvious answer is, no, I’m not alone, we’re all thinking things we know are unfair, but we’re smart enough to keep from saying them aloud, or at least saying them aloud in a public forum.
So, how to stop feeling like an asshole? My dad’s advice to think of the less fortunate should work, but doesn’t. It’s hard to think of the teeming masses of unpublished authors looking jealously at me. It’s hard even to put myself in the shoes of myself ten years ago, when I swore all I wanted was to sell just one story and I’d be content. (I believed me, too.) There’s something bratty in me that, when urged to think of those less fortunate, feels more put upon than consoled. “It’s not fair! You’re calling me a brat, self. I know there are less fortunate people. What about my pain now??”
Strangely, what works better for me is to think of the MORE fortunate. What would I want Big Famous Author’s response to be? Well, shit. Big Famous Author wouldn’t feel threatened or intimidated by this person’s success. To Big Famous Author, this person is barely distinguishable from me, a fellow not-big, worthy of all the praise and encouragement.
My jealousy diffuses, viewing my relative worthlessness from such a great height. Then I ask myself, What would I want Future Legendary Great Writer Marie’s twitter history to look like?
My friend Haizle is always reminding me to ask myself before I speak “Is what I’m about to say necessary? Is it kind?” It’s a good thing I keep saying snarky things to her so she has ample opportunity to help me make this a habit.
World-Renowned Famous Marie would only say things that were necessary and kind. She would encourage the meek and play nice with the strong. Now, instead of punishing myself for being awful, I’m rewarding myself with Superstar Roleplay.
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