When someone writes on Facebook that they wish they were camped out in your living room right now, it has a way of making you sit up and take notice.
Thanks to the wonders of Facebook notifications, I got an email the other day, letting me know that writer Lou Blaser had written just that, tagging me in the process.
It was a comment on her own status update to her Facebook profile. A status update that wrenched my heart, because I related to it so deeply.
Here’s what Lou wrote:
I read a page of Ian McEwan’s and my heart breaks, not in tiny tidy pieces, but in large sharp shreds.
I read a post by Julia Cameron and I just want to crawl back to bed.
These are my favorite writers. I devour what they write. Their words get under my skin. I live in their made-up worlds.
But when I read their work in comparison to mine, I shrink into the tiniest ant. I am torn between throwing their books at the wall, and shredding mine.
Their work and mine? They’re not even in the same country, let alone same ball park. How will I ever measure?
Such is the paralyzing exercise of comparison. And truly, what purpose does it serve?
Over and over, I repeat to myself. Every expert was once a beginner.
Your journey is your own. Your voice is your own. Comparing your work with others’ is disrespecting your own art.
#WritersLife
