I'm very jealous

a controlled amount of resentment

This week has found me in a roiling, social-media fueled jealousy. The jealousy makes me feel silly, of course, because social media is infamously not the place where real, messy, gritty life lives, and yet.

The lesbian influencers on a brand-sponsored vacation in Palm Springs. The way they’re putting their all into stand-up comedy and dance and podcasting careers. The writer a few years younger than me who just got published in New York Magazine and also has a Cosmopolitan column. The writer/influencer who appears very financially stable from writing and influencing. I could go on and on.

If it’s not clear, I don’t mean it should be me instead of them. I just wish it was also me.

chipping away at the novel (over halfway through my 1st draft)

What it’s really about is money and time. What people, like those I’m comparing myself to online, get to do all day while still earning a living.

For as long as I have to have a Day Job, I will probably always have some level of jealousy. When you’re an artist committed to your artform, you always have the call of another life tugging at you, and it’ll always be hard (albeit inspiring, too, depending on the day) to witness people who have figured out a way to follow the tug fully.

I’m so grateful for the privilege of financial stability, and I also low-key hate the thing that gives it to me.

I’m pretty sure I’m doing it in the best possible way for me—working freelance. But no matter how you cut it, I’m a corporate copywriter. I help brands “tell their stories.” I craft language not for the sake of language, but for the sake of selling a good, service, or brand trust. For years, I’ve labeled this the bastardization of language, a phrase that rolls around in my head from time to time.

Many days, I get distracted by scheming how to make my dreams come true—how to be able to write only what I want, only what’s true. I’m writing a novel, but in 2026, very, very few writers make their living solely off book sales. They are also teachers and content creators and Substack publishers and write freelance for magazines and newspapers. Writers who make a comfortable living off writing what they want to write have an audience, and it takes so much work to get a robust audience. Slow, tedious work.

On top of work (a Day Job) and Work (the art).

For now, I’ll keep posting my sporadic TikToks and Substack posts while trying to finish my novel. I’ll send more pitches to magazines. I’ll try to lean more into feeling inspired by other people rather than jealous of them. In the meantime, I’ll be f*cking human, and I’ll allow myself a controlled amount of resentment, okay?

I know some of you reading this get the torture of not getting to run hard toward the thing you love, even if you know it’s a privilege to do so. I like talking about the long, frustrating experience of trying to make it as an artist because I think every hard thing deserves to be talked about. I think those of us having this experience have to feel the frustration and commiserate a little so it doesn’t make us quit or delude ourselves into thinking we’re just not good enough.

Here are some platitudes to help you and me: life is long, it’s about the journey not the destination, everyone walks their own path.

Did those help?

Maybe next time I’ll have something actually helpful to say. In the meantime, keep making your art, no matter who sees it (or doesn’t).

me in CDMX a couple weeks ago…I was not feeling so jealous then

xxxx,

Elle