In my evening twitter procrastination session, I was treated to a conversation with Albert Berg about writers and jealousy. We had noticed a trend among writers, especially the bookless of us. of unhealthy levels of envy.
Maybe I haven’t been a part of the writing game long enough to become jaded or lose patience with it, but I never understood it. A few blogs this week even insinuated severe resentment for their writer friends anytime they landed an agent, sold a book, enjoyed indie pub success, or even revealed a cover.
The conclusion we came to is a lesson my mom taught me a long time ago: Worry about your own shit, and get me another beer.
Now, don’t take this as an endorsement for alcoholism, but seriously, all of us author and writer types are struggling to break free from obscurity. We all struggle to put our words out there and hope that they have meaning for someone, and that we might make some coin while we’re at it. If that chance happens for a friend of yours, be proud, and help them pimp that shit. If you work at it, the time will come to unleash that novel of yours on the unsuspecting public, and those who you helped on the way will gladly repay you in kind.