Mea Culpa

Knowing I am a fan of True Blood, a friend asked me the other day which Charlene Harris novel he should read.  I shrugged haughtily and said the first.  But, I insisted, really you should read mine.  Because I think it’s better.  Then I stopped myself in the conversation and apologized.  Better is relative to personal taste.  Plus, I’m not published… yet.  So who the hell am I to name myself better?  And even if I were published, that doesn’t mean anything.

I was super competitive in high school.  Academically.  In terms of sports, I couldn’t throw or kick a ball if my life depended on it.  But in terms of grades, I had a vicious drive to be the best.  I was second… but I considered that a pretty good triumph considering the first was much smarter than me.

I think competition can be healthy if it motivates one to succeed.  But there was an ugly side to my high school competition.  A catty undercurrent that affected a relationship.  And all over what?  A tenth of a percent and an extra medal at graduation?  What does it mean to be better?  What does that get you?  And what exactly does it prove?  Acting superior doesn’t mean you really are better than everyone else.  It just makes you an ass.

This whole process of writing has informed me of the emotional drain and effort and time that it takes to write a book.  I knew that… and yet… I didn’t really know that before my own attempt.  But it makes me appreciate any book… all books that much more.  I think there are definitely people with a better concept of syntax or sense of realistic human emotion or what makes a good story.  But I don’t think that anyone’s heart is any less worthy of credit for doing the thing.  I think there are people to whom soap opera dialogue and formulaic plots are exactly what is required to escape the drudgery of real life.  So… really, that doesn’t make those authors any less of a writer than me.  If anything, they have been doing it and having the courage to do it for much longer and deserve the cred.  Whereas I get stuck on stupid crap like word count and unnecessary plots.

So, yes, it is my hope that someday people will be in that section of Barnes and Noble and decide to pick up my novel over a Sookie Stackhouse adventure.  Obviously, it is an even greater hope that my friends would make that choice anyway.  But whether they do or don’t, it doesn’t make either book better.  And it doesn’t give me the right to trash another artist’s heart.  Because that just means I don’t have a heart of my own.