“Jealousy,” according to writer Anne Lamott, “ is such a direct attack on whatever measure of confidence you’ve been able to muster.  But if you continue to write, you are probably going to have to deal with it, because some wonderful, dazzling successes are going to happen for some of the most awful, angry, undeserving writers you know—people who are, in other words, not you.”

Which leads me to this story, set at  Harvard, the illustrious institution where I began my writing career. Where I got my first bitter taste of writing jealousy. Not that you can relate, or anything.

I sat one evening in my Feature Writing class wrestling with a feeling I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I’d already decided that I was not cut out to be a journalist because I could supposedly write about everything on the planet but the one topic I was obsessed with –Me—but this wasn’t that feeling: disgust.

“So when my article, Hot Chicks and their Cars, got accepted by Glamour?” the Pamela Anderson look-alike that never failed to sit beside me said, “I like so totally flipped out that my husband?—he’s, like, the owner of The Blue Martini if any of you guys ever want to come downtown for a drink?—practically had to sedate me?!”

There’s something you might not know about me that I should probably insert right here. I can be a snob. If you end your statements with question marks, I’m going to harshly judge you. I shouldn’t, but I will.

“That’s wonderful Candace,” the instructor said, “ Would you like to share with the class how you got yourself published in a major magazine?”

The blonde snapped her gum. “Well?” she began, “I found this reference book with all the names and numbers of editors in the print industry?”  I cringed at the agony that was her voice. “And then I found the name of the editor for the lifestyle section?”  And then Candace ran us through the saga.

The instructor nodded encouragingly while the rest of the class focused their attention on Candace’s heaving Gucci sweater.

For a moment or two I envisioned Candace burning in the flames of hell. Her coral lips fused shut with molten lip-gloss. That’s when I decided that what I was experiencing was akin to rage. My God, I thought, with a modicum of effort I should be able to get my work published if someone like Candace can.

Anne Lamott warned me and all the rest of the aspiring authors out there, the ones who feel like they should have their book out in the world not—insert so-and-so’s name. Even though they haven’t submitted their manuscript to a publisher, or even written one, if we’re going to get technical.

“You are going to feel awful beyond words. You are going to have a number of days in a row where you hate everyone and don’t believe in anything.  If you do know the author whose turn it is, he or she will inevitably say that it will be your turn next, which is what the bride always says to you at each successive wedding, while you grow older and more decayed. It can wreak just the tiniest bit of havoc with your self-esteem to find that you are hoping for small bad things to happen to this friend—for, say, her head to blow up.”

But, truth be told, Candace and her lipgloss really helped me. I realized that you don’t know what you really want in life, what you’re willing to put your energy into, until you find yourself inexplicably angry. Translation: inexplicably jealous.

I know, for example, that I never feel jealous of people who bowl really well, or make a mean borscht, or know the batting averages of every baseball player since….I don’t know…Babe Ruth. Because I don’t care. These are not qualities or skillsets I identify with.

To know where my insecurities and shortcomings lie, here is an abbreviated list of people I feel jealous of:

• great writers–particularly my friends, and authors under the age of twelve
• anyone who runs longer and faster than me
• women who lament about their troubles gaining weight
• loving families with adult children who consider Mom and Dad their besties 
• Light hearted people who can laugh uproariously at tv shows and stupid jokes
• those who can freely express emotion
• folks who have it all–brains, beauty, creativity, influence, and education
• anybody who claims to be balanced

I love Anne Lamott’s thoughts on the cause of our shameful, negative emotions. It explains why I’m often jealous of my talented friends. 

My old therapist, Felicia, once said that jealousy is a secondary emotion, that it’s born out of feeling excluded and deprived, and that if I worked on those age-old feelings, I would probably break through the jealousy.  I tried to get her to give me a prescription for Prozac, but she said that this other writer, Candace, was in my life to help me heal my past. That Candace should be enough.

Jealousy is there to show us which part of our lives need work. Because it’s always easier to feel shitty, to begrudge other people their success and happiness, than it is to put in the labor.  That being said, it’s time for me to get back to my writing.  What about you?