I was thinking about this last night as I sucked down mass quantities of Diet Coke in front of the TV (yes, I watched about 30 minutes of the Olympics, just in time to see that poor Swedish woman crash and burn.)

Writers do suffer from angst, much as one does in any profession. The self-flagellation that goes on is painful, moreso for the fact that we know it's self-flagellation most of the time. In most professions, like teaching, there's a place to go to whine and gripe about your bad days. This is usually the lunch-room, the break-room, the teacher's lounge.

But, you protest, writers have on-line communities where we can commune with each other and spin out our sad tales of frustration, rejection, and betrayal.

No, we really don't.

Not if we have any sense.


Most writers I know are careful about what they say on-line...even in private forums. You never know who's lurking in those forums. You never know when someone will lift your post and e-mail it to someone you'd rather not see it. And once the ENTER button is depressed, it's out there. You truly can't retract things. Never completely. So in some ways, our frustrations end up spinning about in our own heads, magnifying themselves until they hurt and bite.

I do have a couple of writer friends with whom I feel safe saying almost anything via e-mail. I trust them. They can trust me. I'm not going to repost anything they send me. I'm not going to out their _______ toward _______. And that's important for a writer to have. And of course, poor displacedtexan has to listen to every moment of the self-flagellation.

But I was discussing 'guilt' with someone on-line last night, especially regarding the reverse form of schadenfreude that we writers often feel. (You know, when your friend gets a book deal, and you don't have one. Doesn't matter if you don't have a book out there. You still feel bad because you don't, even while you're supposed to be happy for them, and then feel guilty because you're not being happy enough for them...because you think that, comparatively, you must suck.)

I had the thought last night that this reaction must stem from the Protestant Work Ethic. If you're not familiar with this sociological concept, then you should read up on it. Basically, we work hard to get ahead, because those who get ahead are the ones predestined for salvation. If we're not getting ahead, then, well....we must be sinners. Therefore visible signs of success are what show our inner goodness. (So we have to keep working harder to get ahead for the sake of....getting ahead.)

That reverse schadenfreude above? Yes, I think it stems directly from this.

If we were good, we would be successful. If we were good enough, that is. So every time someone achieves what we have not, it must be a sign that we're not working hard enough, we're not writing fast enough, we're not smart enough, clever enough, novel enough, interesting enough....

...and then we start beating ourselves with the imaginary cat-o-nines. (I suspect some writers are using the real thing, but who am I to judge...)

I've told friends before that I'm a very workmanlike writer. My work is not poetical, experimental, or ground-breaking. I don't even use flashbacks. I just like to tell stories. This, of course, is the cause of some limitation. There are markets I'll never break, and that's OK. I'll never be the darling of the industry, and I'll never be the scourge of the industry, either (S. Meyer, I'm looking at you.) I don't have an agent, but I'm not actively trying to market a book right now.

And yes, I am trying to push my envelope. I've proven that I can sell up to 38K. I want to sell longer. I'm trying to do less of the stuff that editors want me to fix all the time. I'm trying to be better about setting. I'm trying to write something marketable, rather than just something that I like. I'm working on those things.

But some nights, I reflect that fatalismo might have been an easier social paradigm under which to be born. Then everything would be destined and would fall out as planned. (This is different from the above, because how hard I work does not figure in it at all.)

And that person who just sold three books to ________? It would be so much easier to be happy for them because I would simply think that my failure to achieve the same would only be a matter of fate--completely out of my control--and not reflect on me in any way.

Then again, maybe not...