The Dangers of Comparison
I recently read an interview with a critically acclaimed author, in the form of headings:
- My earliest reading memory
- My favourite book growing up
- The book that changed me as a teenager
- The writers who changed my mind
- The book that made me want to be a writer
- The book or author I came back to
- The book I reread
- The book I could never read again
- The book I discovered later in life
- The book I am currently reading
I thought about how I’d answer these questions—and then I gave up. Because, wow, none of what might have been my answers would have measured up to the lists of classics and literary authors this writer answered with—many of whom I’d never heard of.
I felt small.
It’s not the article, nor the author’s doing. It was me, comparing myself to her. It was me thinking that since I’d never been exposed to the same literary background as her, then I’d never achieve the same kind of literary success as her.
It’s a ridiculous conclusion; I work hard at my craft; I study and read and write, and even if my answers to these questions would make an English lit prof shudder, it doesn’t mean I can’t write well.
As writers, we’re good comparing ourselves to others and deeming ourselves inferior.
But our own voices matter. No matter our writing and reading pedigree, our stories matter.