Writer's Envy

I'm reading a delicious book by the name of Eat Pray Love. The author is Elizabeth Gilbert. She is an exquisite writer who uses the most beautiful vocabulary, and paints vividly the images and experiences ricocheting in her mind. As I read her words I am inspired, awestruck, and envious all at the same time. I wish to write my words and expressions as stunningly as she does, but I can't.

We are two completely different individuals with contrasting upbringings, dissimilar skill sets, and differing life adventures. I believe she was an English major in college. That means she knows and uses more words than I. She also speaks a foreign language (Italian) fluently, which greatly increases one's vernacular. She's lived in Italy, India and Indonesia. She's seen places, tasted food, and met people that I'll probably never see, eat or meet. She has a unique story much more divergent than my own.

That's not to say that I am any less of a writer, nor that I couldn't learn and use more words. We both have the same brain capacities and the same 24 hours in each day. However, the chances of me dropping my life in America to travel around the world are slim. I have a child, I believe she doesn't have any children yet. I'm not going to move freely about the globe with my preschooler in tow. I'd rather give him a stable foundation without too many drastic moves, like from Italy to India. While it may be an exciting childhood escapade for him, I don't possess the patience to do so. Also, the likelihood of me switching to an English major is nonexistent. I'll stick to Public Relations with a minor in Marketing.

It's toxic to compare ourselves to others because we will never become that which we lack, no matter how hard we try. I used to envy Beyonce. Her voice and dance moves seem to come about naturally and with ease. I was angry at myself for not being able to use my voice and my body the she did hers. However, one day I watched a documentary about her life. I saw how tirelessly she worked day in and day out. She had to take voice lessons, learn choreography, record in the studio, work with a huge team, go from state to state performing, go to dozens of events, etc. etc. etc. Singing and dancing are literally her entire life, that's why she's so good at both.

I don't want that lifestyle. And I'm sure I don't want the lifestyle of Ms. Gilbert. It's funny how we only focus on the end results when it comes to successful people. We see only the highlights, the fireworks, the final draft. When an album drops or a book is released, all we see is the finished product.

I don't know how many drafts of the Eat Pray Love manuscript were edited, tossed, or rejected before finally being accepted by a major publisher. I'm clueless as to how many nights Liz sat at her computer with tears of frustration pooling in her eyes as she battled with writer's block. Was there ever an incident such as her computer crashing and erasing hundreds of already written pages? Did she face self-doubt over who would buy the book and if the public would actually like it?

One thing I do know for sure is that she didn't sit down and write the entire book in one sitting. I'm sure she had to make difficult edits, and meet seemingly unreachable deadlines. I bet there were dozens of other stories and experiences that she wanted to include in the book, but couldn't. I believe that if I sat down and conversed with the author there would be innumerable horror stories about the drafting, writing, editing and publishing processes.

When I become visibly successful to the world there will undoubtedly be people who will envy my "success." They will see my cars, fancy clothes, and big house. They will see my millions of dollars in net worth. They will see my successful son on television and on magazine covers. They will be oblivious to afternoons like this. Afternoons where I'm in my off campus apartment, chomping away at the keys on my laptop, filling another blog post with my most intimate thoughts, anticipating 20 or 30 views. Sunday afternoons where my two figure bank account awaits the bashing of another rejected loan payment. Cold December afternoons where I'm sitting in my BW sweat pants and mint green cami, being single, staring at an empty bowl of Cocoa Puffs.

They won't know the struggles of my childhood, the insecurities of my motherhood, or the lonely nights of pretending my pillow is the chest of a past lover. They won't consider the lifeless feelings in my human shell during the dreadful hospital stays with my son. They won't empathize with the pain of seeing those divorce papers hidden in a blue plastic bag on my dining room table. Or the surreal moments at the courthouse in Ravenna when the dissolution was finalized. Nope.

They won't see the hidden scars covered by contouring, highlights, and airbrushed makeup. They'll only envy the beauty on the surface. And I guess that's fine with me.