I admit it. I get jealous when I hear other writers have struck publishing deals, that their debut novels are gracing the bestseller lists, that they managed to get the killer agent I've been coveting. Yes, I get very, very jealous.
I'm happy for them, of course. It's confirmation that with a good novel, anything is possible. But inside my head, a little voice is bleating: why can't that be meeeeee?
Rationally, I know there are zillions of reasons why it isn't me. I haven't written the right novel yet; my story-crafting needs work. I do think that one day I will get my fiction published -- hopefully sooner rather than later. But that doesn't stop the monster gnawing away inside of me.
It's times like this that I think back to my days as a competitive sprinter. I used to run the 100m and 200m, and I could -- and would -- obsess for hours about 'being the best'. Once I was the best, I'd worry about who was up-and-coming, who might knock me off my number one position. And that was when my coach would remind me that worrying about other people is a waste of time. We can't control the actions of others. But we can control ourselves.
All I can do is write the best that I can, and let the chips fall where they may!