Confessions from my toxic relationship with envy.
I’d love to say that I am, deep down to my soul, a true patron of writers everywhere. That I loyally and blindly support my fellow writers in all their pursuits.
I do in fact, have a generous spirit. I want people to be happy. I have always considered myself a people pleaser. I’m learning that evidently, that’s my public persona. It’s not my whole being.
I scroll the twitter feed and there it is.
I’ve landed an agent!
Well now, @imsohappyicouldspit, I’m thrilled for you. Not. Some of you, those truly supportive generous souls, are thinking get over it. Be kind. Be supportive. But my inner monster, whom I affectionately call Fred, (no offense to the wonderfully supportive Freds of the world) has other ideas.
There he is, on my shoulder, reminding me that I don’t have an agent and at the rate I’m going I never will. I’m not good enough. Thanks, Fred, for the vote of confidence. Then my fickle friend reminds me that perhaps my work is better. More deserving. Wait what? Come on Fred, either I’m not good enough or I’m too good? Then the kicker. I chose the wrong genre. Look at all those YA books getting signed? For a minute I contemplate giving up Happy Endings for teenage angst. That’s not ever going to happen. But I’m happy to blame the current market for my shortcomings.
I dutifully click the heart and reply with the approprite GIF. Because I discovered that in the writing community on Twitter, words are set aside and replaced by images. As a newbie, I initially asked, what’s with the GIFs? We’re all writers? Not out loud of course, mostly muttered it to myself.
The issue, for me, is simple. I do want every aspiring author to be successful. I want to see their work published. I want to celebrate with them their seriously badass accomplishments. But I can’t seem to shake Fred.
I’d love to write a happy ending here. Tell you I’ve figured out how to rid myself of Fred once and for all. I’m not there yet. I’m working on it.
I take comfort in knowing, however, that I’m not alone. I ran across a few tweets recently that reflected the same sentiment. Conflicted by the emotions of joy for their friends and jealousy of their success. And I came to a conclusion.
Time to own this little green monster.
I had to find a way to accept him. Open up to the idea that somewhere there was a bright side to having this beast inside me. So I basically threw Fred a ‘welcome to my life’ party. Granted it was just me and my friend Margarita.
From this day forward, I’ll let their success drive my own.
That was my ultimate resolution. I would use Fred to fuel my own aspirations. Every time I see a celebratory post, I submit another query. I write. I edit. I get back to me. Because I sincerely and honestly am happy for them. Most of me is, anyway. I want to enjoy their ride along with them, not get left behind in a puddle of green goo.
I find there’s a distinct pattern to dealing with Fred. When someone shares their fabulous news I immediately take a deep, cleansing breath. Next I congratulate them. Another deep, cleansing breath. Then I begin my snap out of it process.
Don’t think about their success, focus on me. Me. Me. Me.
But isn’t that the problem? I somehow make their accomplishment about me instead of them. And fundamentally, it’s just wrong. I don’t want to be that person. I want to feel a part of their success rather than a victim of it.
You’re probably wondering at this point if I’ve solved the problem of Fred. So you can break off your own relationship with the devil’s brew. If I had that answer, I’d stop writing fiction and write a self-help book. It’d be a bestseller. If Fred were still around he’d leave. Of course if he were still around, my self-help book would be fiction.
It’s most certainly a conundrum. Realistically I know there are those on Twitter who embellish. Tell tales. In the Writing Community, among all the new friends I’ve made, there are a few with some suspect claims.
One day, a fellow angst-ridden indie author posed the question “If you are a self-published writer, how many books have you sold this year?” And the responses were fast and furious and honest, for the most part. Anywhere from a handful to a few hundred at best. Then there came the questionable reply. The one that made me, and I’m sure most of my compatriots, sit up and scream wtf at their feed.
15,000 in my first year for my debut novel.
After picking myself up off the floor, I began the internal debate. Tequila? Or Prosecco? I certainly needed something to make Fred disappear. And of course ward off the onslaught of self-doubt that was about to overtake me.
15,000? My books must suck. My marketing sucks. My writing sucks.
Then I paused, and took a moment to contemplate. And did what any self-respecting writer would do. My homework. I immediately went to Amazon and checked the sales ranking for said blockbuster novel. Now it doesn’t give me the number of books sold, true, however my own meager sales put me in at a six-figure ranking, whereas this stunning debut was so far into seven digits that the claim was simply far-fetched. I’m not sure if this writer was deliberately misleading or perhaps, benefit of the doubt, there was a typo. Maybe it was 150. Or 15.
The point? Fred’s existence is based upon claims of others’ success. Claims being the operative word. My plan now? Remind myself that social media while necessary in the world of indie publishing is toxic. Toxic to my serenity. To my being the person I want to be, sans green goo. I met Fred through Twitter, to be honest. Prior to my entering this world of distorted reality, I wasn’t obsessed with finding an agent or achieving a ranking or quite frankly any artificial trappings of success. I most definitely wasn’t hunting for followers.
Once upon a time, it was writing that made me happy.
So is the solution to get off social media and stop trying to promote my books? Yeah, no can do. I need the validation from readers. Particularly those that review my work. Because that for me is my current measure of success. We all define it in our own way. For now, I’ll let Fred hang out on my right shoulder while I earnestly practice the art of being supportive.
Yes. I’ve got an inner monster, green, gooey and resentful as hell. He’s still here and he’s all mine. Might as well own him. If I can’t drive him out, I’ll let him drive me towards my goals. If we’re going to have a relationship, Fred and I, it might as well be productive.
MJ Miller is busy recovering from a somewhat long and painful marketing career. A prolific procastinator and querying addict, her musings can be found on her author’s blog as well as a few other blogs floating in the cloud. Her recently self-published works of fiction can be found on Amazon.
