That’s a line from a Better Than Ezra song, in case you’re one of their fans too. If not, they’re an oldie but goodie.

So, last night I spent a good portion of the evening trolling blogs, as I’ve been doing for endless weeks now, sucking up every little thing I can learn about writing and publishing. In the process I ended up with five hundred tabs collected in my window, waiting for me to freeze time so that I’d actually have enough time to read them all. As I flipped through the windows, admiring and learning, something else happened.

I got an awful feeling in my stomach. It was like homesickness, only I was already home so I guess I’d call it more like . . . destinysickness. Covetous-future-envy-sickness. If you’ve never felt it, good for you, and let me explain. Destinysickness is equal parts yearning, disappointment, jealousy, impatience, and vigorous creative energy. It occurs from viewing what other people have accomplished and letting yourself feel envious. When I feel like this, I’m likely to either:

I try to end up at C, because it’s the only useful outcome, but sometimes the Destinysickness makes me crazy, and I pile one envious feeling after another on top of the pit in my stomach until I can’t sleep and get nothing productive done. Why do I do this to myself? It’s not nice. It doesn’t make me happy. It’s such a strange thing, this mixture of impatience and energy. I’m more accustomed to sketching the energy out of my system in mere minutes, rather than enduring the lengthy process that writing requires before you reach a moment of closure.

At these times, I’m so grateful for my husband. I blah, blah, blah at him about this stuff, and you know what he does? He asks me how long I’ve been writing books. Which is six months. Then he just looks at me and shakes his head, and I laugh and laugh and get back to writing.