There’s something very vulnerable about writing about jealousy. It’s an admission that, underneath our Facebook shares and supportive retweets, there is something craggy at the center of our selves. Something unsure and small: a split pit, a sliver of schist.
Maybe it’s because, on the surface, we’re supposed to be happy for each other. Sometimes I feel very capable of this. Sometimes, when a friend receives word of publication, I feel as happy for them as I would for myself. Thrilled! Delighted! Over the moon!
But the other times, it throws me off completely, like waking up from a dream in which I attended my ex-stepfather’s wedding or a receiving a rejection from a journal I knew was perfect for my work.
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