I have a confession to make. For most of my life I have struggled with envy.
I am sure I was envious as a child, but for me this disease didn’t make its ugly presence known until just shortly after I was married, when I began to long for a baby. I battled with this for the entire ten years of my infertility. Envy is a terrible thing. It will take a perfectly content person (me) and make her glare with hatred at a completely innocent pregnant woman.
I thought I had gotten past it. I thought envy no longer had such a strong hold on me.
I was wrong.
It reared its ugly head once again as I started writing my first novel. For me writing is one of the most enjoyable things I have ever done. And the thought of other people reading my work makes me burst with satisfaction. It doesn’t matter that the only people to read it are my friends and family. Sort of...
I will get a wave of it (envy) whenever I hear about a new author getting published. I feel like I did six years ago looking at that pregnant woman. They have what I want. Not the money. I can honestly say I am content with that part of my life. (I’m not rich, just thankful for what I have.) For me it’s the readers. People, lots of them are reading their work. People are falling in love with their characters.
But I’ve dealt with this disease in the past and I have learned the cure. (You’ll have to wait for letter G when I discuss gratitude.)