When I read great books or watch great films or television, sometimes I feel guilty. I think about the people who wrote the novels or who wrote the screenplays, and what I think is something like this: while so and so put forth the effort to create something that has captivated me and countless others, I’ve wasted my own time by not doing the same.
By not writing my own thing when I’ve had plenty of time to, by rewatching something I’ve seen a hundred times already, by browsing Facebook and Twitter an extra hour for no reason at all.
Maybe that’s a little depressing, but sometimes I can’t help it. Especially if something that I’ve read or watched or seen a live performance of brings chills to my skin or even tears to my eyes.
I wouldn’t call it jealousy, though. Because what would we do if we didn’t have the great movies, books, and shows we look forward to enjoying? I love immersing myself into the works of others as much as everyone else does.
I guess I find that it’s more of the feeling of disappointment, rather. That I’m letting myself down, by not trying to push myself into completing a large writing project, that I could never create something others would find worth while. That I avoid these feelings by further hiding myself in others’ stories.
It’s a cycle of hide and seek, really. But I know every writer, whether great or small, has felt these kinds of feelings before.
