I’ve begun to realize something I already knew: how utterly useless it is to compare yourself to other writers. It’s one of those pieces of advice that you hear and understand but only learn through your own experience. Sometimes you have to learn it more than once. Or I do, anyway.
I write the way I write and they write the way they write. I try to push myself to try harder and get better (there’s always room for improvement), but there’s only one George RR Martin, Jodi Picoult, Nora Roberts, Stephen King, or whomever. Because I’m not them. I’m me. (It seems obvious, I know.)
We all compare our writing to the writing of others. Bits of prose, a fresh twist, an emotional scene — we might wish it were ours, but it isn’t. We should improve our own work, enjoy experiencing theirs, but never compare the two. Admiration is one thing – “Hey, that was well done. How did she do that?” – but allowing ourselves to think, “That makes everything I’ve written look like talentless drivel” is only going to derail our progress.
Easy to say, harder to do, right?
