So Lindsay Ellis, who I’ve talked about before, just announced that she sold a book, a fiction book, and it’ll be published in 2020. I should be happy about that. One of my favorite YouTubers, who makes insightful and thought-provoking analyses of nostalgic films and film theory, has a book coming out. And instead of being happy, I find myself being angry and insanely jealous. Why?
I know it wasn’t like it was easy for her. She says it took ten years to get the book published. I’ve been doing this since 2006. I’ve written a half-dozen novels, collected rejections. Did she get this just because she’s got semi-celebrity status? Do I have to get a Hugo nomination just to get something in a bookstore? I can’t tell if I’m angry because A) you apparently have to put so much work into a book only the workaholics can do it, the ones who make writing their fulltime job with no safety net or B) I’m just unlucky (or bad at writing).
Of course, I know all these are completely irrational. I should be happy for her. I should be happy for me because I’ll get to read a book by her. But then seeing all these congratulations from people on Twitter (big names like John Scalzi and Hank Green) makes me angrily jealous.
I’m the bad guy.