Stirring Point

The green spark of envy—a feeling I despise but can’t seem to shake. It arrives when I encounter another’s work leaping from the page like some lyrical sculpture. I want their cogency, their craftwork, and every damn bit of their patience.

My jealousy, my envy—I want it gone. Bury it deep below the foreign sands of the Gobi Desert. Plunge its plump body into the far reaches of the North Atlantic. Anywhere but here, where it lingers and consumes good will by the mouthful. Envy clouds creativity and mars the writer’s character. Eager eyes gather lessons and learn from the world; envious eyes shrink pupils to pinholes and burn a hole through the innocent. To covet skills bleeds purity from the vein, and the good work of others often bleeds me dry.

Concise idioms hurt the most. “She’s an iron fist in a velvet glove” might leave me reeling for days. It lands like the thud of a blunt object behind the ear. Dizzy and confused, I stumble about on weak knees and search for bearings. My god. Why didn’t I think of that?

The spark ignites my coattail when the effort of others is especially hidden. They work hard, of course, but envy tells me their creation is natural, arriving on the easy wings of a muse. “They have innate gifts,” it says, shining the light of day on only their finished product. I see their polish, not their drafts. And the lacquered surface reflects crystal-clear imagery. My work is smeared with eraser marks and misspellings. Writing sessions end in a pile of sawdust I try to pass off as carrot cake. Envy is insidious and blind with desire. How great writers manage to arrive with work in hand? Inconsequential.

Envy feeds my impatience. It tells me to want what I haven’t earned and demands it from me ten years ago. “You’re past due, like an old banana,” it says. I wither in the sunlight, staring at the greenish bananas sitting on the counter. Their sweetness is about to burst as they ripen perfectly. What have I earned? What do I deserve? Have I done the work? I have not; that is true. 

I pause to see envy for what it is when the green spark appears. I stare at the rotting roots’ emerald-green glow. The hue is seductive, emanating from the mind’s blazing ego. It fixates on the success and accolades of others, warming the cold hands of the greedy. “Come a little closer,” it calls.

Does it matter where one stands in comparison to others? If so, how much? Compassion, awareness, and kindness—these things truly matter. But good work is important, too. Can we see envy as a momentary reaction? A passing feeling in time? And can we shift envy to admiration at that moment? Can we suck the poison from the snakebite?

I want to trade envy for inspiration and exchange greed for generosity. I want a thriving artistic landscape where good work is crafted with the intent of moving others. I want to praise their work for the ideas it inspires, because genuine, honest work is enough. That’s the message my envy needs to accept: my genuine, honest work is enough. And I’ll tangle with it until the spark eventually subsides.