Everyone experiences feelings they do not like: jealousy, guilt, etc. Well, perhaps some people do like to feel these things, but then I assume the feeling they dislike is calm. I am currently experiencing feelings of resentment. Though my logical brain feels otherwise, my emotional responses to anyone in my field who I perceive to be successful (or even "more successful than me") are extremely bitter this afternoon. I am not envious of their money or their accolades or their fans; I am envious of the fact that they seem able to get their shit done.
I am an occasional procrastinator, but I have been fighting those old urges, and I've been fairly successful. I work every day. I think about my work in the quiet moments before dinner, before bed, while I'm eating my lunch. And yet. I've tried to lower my standards, to just get shit out on the page, but even then--I typically get one or two days of real writing, unencumbered, absolutely flowing, two days of it. And want to know how much I produce during these days? Three pages, if I'm lucky. So I'm feeling resentful. I'm upset at myself for not being able to write 10 pages a day, for not possessing the physical stamina to work for eight hours. It's not a competition, but it can feel like one. I love my peers--LOVE them. They are the brothers and sisters in arms that I never imagined I would be lucky enough to find. I do not like being envious of them. I do not like these feelings that my body has so graciously burdened me with.
The worst part is that I am afraid. I'm afraid that my peers, my advisors, will think I am lazy, will think I am not dedicated. I'm afraid that people outside of my field think I'm a freeloader, because (as all of us know) I've had people treat me like I don't have a "real job," like i am obligated to skip out and do what they want because it's not actually skipping work, for two years. I don't have published work online, outside of a few freelance projects which don't really represent me, or in magazines. I am afraid that I am behind. I am afraid of dedicating my life, my mis-wired brain, to to something I love passionately but which abuses as often as it rewards. I am afraid of failing.
But here I am, doing it anyway. Or trying, at least. Something about this is unhealthy, but I suppose that's the price we pay. Maybe that's really the root of it--I'm jealous of those who don't seem like they have to pay as high a price. I'm off the mark, I know, but I don't know many writers who writhe on the floor and whine quite as ineloquently as I do--or who talk about it. Maybe that's a good thing. I don't know. I'm just upset with myself right now, and I don't have the energy to ask for help with my usual wit. I just wanted to be honest, to let out all these ridiculous feelings that don't serve any good purpose.
Maybe if this was easier for me, I'd be doing it wrong. I don't know. I'm trying. I'm really trying.