Steven King once wrote that you needed talent to succeed as a writer. He then said that you would know if you were talented if someone were willing to pay you for your work.
I'm not jealous of their success, completely the opposite as a matter of fact. I'm excited for their success. For two of them, I provided critiques or betas for their stories before they went to final draft and sale. There's a great deal of satisfaction to be taken from gett

My envy, frustration, or whatever you call it, stems from my disappointment in my progress over the last few months. From a writing aspect, I feel stalled. My obligations to the Army are at an all time high. I get up and five in the morning and come home at seven or eight at night. The family responsibilities kick in, and sometimes I have to sleep. Next thing you know, several days travel by with no progress made on any writing projects.
This wasn't a surprise. I'm an Iron Major. It's the nickname we give officers in similar positions expected to pull the lion's share of an organizations load. It's the busiest time of my career. Doing well in this job is critical to my long range goals and retirement.
So I knew back in January when I took this job that I wouldn't get as much writing done as I'd like. Goals were scaled back. Expectations, lowered. This year's singular objective: get paid for a piece of work. Any work. As stated earlier, meet Stephen King's definition of talented.
My professional envy comes from respect. This isn't a case of thinking my kung fu is stronger than theirs. This is about me sitting on my thumbs and biting my lip because I know I'm capable of moving to the head of the class.
It does get harder watching the success of good friend, knowing I'm intentionally throttling back while they move forward. I want them to keep moving forward. The more success my peers experience, the more I burn to meet them at the ladder.
My time will come.
So, this next week. Vacation. Not really. We're putting in a new kitchen and bathrooms. Plus, I'm the Iron Major; getting yanked back into the office to pull someone's bacon out of the fire is inevitable. Don't feel bad for me, remember, I asked for this.
But, by Saturday, 15,000 new words on the YA rewrite. FIFTEEN THOUSAND. I'm calling it here. I'm motivated. Blame Julie.
See you next week.