![]() ![]() She wears sweaters, collars, caps, scarves, capelets, and even socks she has made herself. She raises silkworms for spinning her own silk thread. She owns Angora rabbits, which she combs for their fluffy fibers. And not only that, she owns alpacas and goats and sheep, which she shears to spin her own yarn. Like she’s somebody out of a fairytale? It irks me. She spins her own fibers on several spinning wheels. She has a huge loom in her house for weaving. For instance, I envy my friend Shannon’s textile skills. We see lightning strike other writers page after page while we are in a drought.Īnd if we ’re creative spirits, the jealousy may not end on the page. We covet diction, nuance, audacity, originality. We even covet sometimes a singular word other writers use. We wish we had their ability to craft a narrative so taut there’s a risk that we might not be carried safely across their high-wire act. We wish we ’d written that sentence or that line of poetry, which slams the heart against the rib cage. We marvel at their talent to make tremendous meaning with the same little black marks we have access to. But mostly, I believe, we want their way with language, their techniques and abilities with craft. Maybe we need to get our crimes said and done in group therapy: We sometimes crave the prestige and the publication record and the prizes of other writers. The greatest writers ever have felt that way! You’re in good company.” I was crushed by the sorrowful ending, but also by the thought, “Girl, you will never ever write any thing that good.” Then on mid-day Tuesday I finally got some relief from my envy when suddenly that same voice in my head said, “Oh! It’s okay. ![]() I could barely get out of bed after I read those last pages. It seemed like a start to a spectacular day. Years ago I woke up one Sunday spring morning with the luxurious plan to finish the last few chapters of Cold Mountain. If I can’t write like that by now, maybe I should hang it up.” We’ve opened a literary journal or a novel or a new book of poetry by someone tenderly young and thought, “Dang. Many of us have felt the tug when we read amazing works, especially by living writers. I ’m guessing a lot of writers will nod their heads to see my shameful envy laid out here in black and white. Even that master storyteller told a student during an MFA workshop that he wished he’d written her story. I do find a little remedy for my guilt when I remember a tidbit about Fred Chappell. Ambition may have been taboo for women writers, but envy and jealousy are outright sins, or so we’re taught. It is ambitious to be a writer at all, and for some of us-especially women-even that terminology was something we shied away from. The only way I forgive myself for any jealousy in my life is to call it ambition. If I need a thesis statement during these confessional, social-media times, it’s that I am jealous of other writers. ![]()
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