This morning, as I was looking through the client line-up for a big PR company that vets authors they accept, I realized just what small fry I am compared to the authors they represent. When I looked at the form that asked to submit the first five chapters of my latest novel, I realized then at just how weak my storytelling skills are compared to these authors whose stories jump right off the page from the first chapter on, don’t dwell on too much description like I love to bog my stories down, and just, overall, write a thousand times better than I do.
And even though I recognize comparison-itis when it hits me like it did then (and above), it still makes my brave little heart shrivel up, even if it’s just a little bit. It still makes me feel inadequate and a failure.
You’re probably wondering what started this mood. Well, it was a blog post that I’ve since taken down because although it extolled my love for a certain author, it hit me at just how trillion miles away I am from this author and others like her. It hit me hard and I had to take the post down. It’s probably a good reason why I shouldn’t know anything about the authors whose books I admire.
Envy is a terrible demon.
But I also know that I need to stop comparing myself to these authors. I can look up to them and hold them as role models and that’s it. I need to also do the work needed to get to where they are. I’ll get there.
I just have to stop comparing myself to anyone but the writer I was yesterday.