I hate other writers. But let me be specific. I hate published writers. I don’t think I’m alone in this. It’s a jealousy thing. We all want that recognition. Not just ebook indie-publishing, but in the book store, everyone reading-your-book fame.
Realistically, this doesn’t happen very often. So the hate club builds members. We all channel our collective frustration at those published folks. We say, “I could do that,” or “That book isn’t so good.” When deep down, we yearn to be them.
Today I took a step closer to joining the other side. I’ve found an accomplice in the form of a literary agent. No guarantee of being published (or even selling well) but it’s invigorating to know that someone is basing their income and livelihood on your creative chops.
It reminds me of a Charles Bukowski poem I read once. I’ve scoured my poetry books, but can’t locate it again. It basically had Bukowski commenting on all the haters he had. Those that felt they could write a better poem.
In my search, I did run across this poem about writing. A good one for the Hate Club.
in addition to the envy and the rancor of some of
there is the other thing, it comes by telephone and
letter: “you are the world’s greatest living
this doesn’t please me either because somehow
I believe that to be the world’s greatest living
there must be something
terribly wrong with you.
I don’t even want to be the world’s greatest
just being dead would be fair
So what have we learned? Even success has it’s downsides.
Feel free to hate.