I so admire people who are able to write a full…anything. Whether it be a poem, a play, a book—the ability to cogently put down thoughts in order is so beyond me. I’ve started more things than I could ever possibly finish, and all of them seem somehow incomplete. If I were to review my own writing, it would be “lacks a point.” Because often, when I read my own writing in retrospect, that’s what I notice first. Introduction: check. Supporting paragraphs: check. Conclusion? Nowhere to be found.

When a friend sends me a sample of her writing I am transported into a mood I could only call ‘creative jealousy.’ Part of me is livid at her ability to complete a thought on paper. Part of me is inspired to try at it myself. All of me finds it hard to focus on the words themselves; they are simply swimming in front of my eyes as constant reminders of my own inadequacy.

There is an idea that all writers have something to say, they just need to dig deep enough. My problem is I dig plenty deep, but I’m afraid to put any of it down on paper. Those of my friends and colleagues who are not affected by this crippling self-censorship, who have a true and honest connection between their minds and their fingers, those are the people of whom I am truly jealous.

Jealousy and admiration are complex emotions and live side by side. But I’m pretty sure that when I feel jealousy, it is myself I am truly mad at. That probably isn’t just for creativity, but for everything.