On Professional Jealousy

So...
...
...
This has been on my mind for a long time.  And I've wanted to write about it.  But I'm also embarrassed/nervous to write about it.

I am fortunate to know a lot of tremendously talented playwrights.  I met 'em in graduate school, I've met 'em at conferences, I met 'em floating around New York.  Some of them are my closest friends, some of them are simply people I am thrilled to see when I see them.  I've picked pumpkins with them, hiked with them, given them feedback over Skype when we were separated by long distances, housed them on my air mattress when they needed to crash, suffered hangovers and heartbreaks with them, smeared myself in chocolate cake for them (don't ask), jumped out of cakes for them (again, please don't ask), attended readings in basements and studio apartments and rooftops for them, talked long into the night about love and life and art and hard decisions with them.

They are my artistic family.

And yet.

Over the past few years, as we've put a little bit of space between us at the warm (or hot, if you're talking' Austin) cocoon of graduate school, it's been...tough.  See, we, most of us, apply for a lot of the same things.  Or slightly different things, depending on where we live/what ethnicity we are/what gender we identify with.  But a lot of the same development opportunities.  And the way things are set up right now, it's pretty tough to move forward, pretty tough to get the attention of the folks who will eventually pay you/produce you/give you access to a wider audience, unless you rack up some of those development opportunities.

And some of us get 'em, and some of us don't.

For me, the world of theater hasn't been particularly welcoming.  I was lucky enough to get into Ars Nova during my first year in New York, where I met the kind of writers (Sam Hunter, Amy Herzog, Matthew Lopez) who off-Broadway and regional theaters are just LINING UP to produce (and who, incidentally, are both terrific writers and terrific people).  And honestly, I felt like a fraud (or, worse, a lapse in the artistic committee's judgment) the whole time I was there.  I've gotten a few readings in NYC, and some terrific productions with small companies in Austin and Chicago.  Film and TV opportunities, something I assumed would come much later if at all -- those, actually, I've had luck with (fingers crossed).  A first-look deal.  Relationships with a couple of production companies.  A chance to pitch to networks.  All of which have kept me sane, and reminded me that I *do* have things to say, I *do* have a sense of craft, there *are* people I can reach through my writing, and *eventually* hard work will prevail and planets will align.

Oftentimes, I have heard about my dear friends' luck only third-hand, or after the fact.  They have downplayed terrific opportunities I know we'd all kill for (PlayPenn! Ojai! Jerome! Hedgebrook!).  They have averted their eyes, changed the subject.  I have offered an offhand, slightly terse "congratulations" and we've moved onto discussing other friends work, other friends careers, rather than discuss the subject at hand.

When the good news has been mine, the scene has been the same.  I feel myself tense up before I mention any good news, I downplay my excitement, couching it always in "probably nothing will come of it," I brace myself for the friendly-but-never-fully-believable "that's great" I know will follow...followed by an interrogation.

Because the thing is, there are only so many opportunities to go around.  And chances are, we both applied for whatever one of us got.  And in reality, I can't tell you why play X got chosen over play Y.

But what I hate is that these opportunities, and the ways they are meted out, make me feel like the least mature, least generous, least sincere version of myself -- so preoccupied with trying to conceal my own jealousy and insecurity that I'm incapable of fully celebrating the much-deserved good news of a dear friend.  And what gets me is we all know what the other one is feeling because we've all been on both sides of it.

Please don't say I'm the only one who feels this duality.  I've had too many of these conversations, and heard from too many friends who have just heard a good friends' good news, to think I'm the only one who struggles with it.  If you say "no, I'm never anything other than happy for my fellow playwrights," I will think you are Pollyanna and/or a liar and we can't be friends.

The insincerity of those moments kills me -- whatever side of them I'm on.  The fact that I am being anything other than my whole self for my dear friends, the fact that I hold back in those moments that are most worth celebrating, makes me feel like a terrible friend.  It turns FRIENDS and COMRADES into COLLEAGUES and RIVALS.  And there are too many other moments on this long, rocky road (I mean artistic careers, yes, but I also mean LIFE which should, which must take precedence) when we need each other for us to do that.  Their friendship means too much for me to do that.

So here's a thought: what if, instead of the tight, brittle "congratulations-i'm-so-happy-for-you,"
 what if we embraced -- fully embraced and accepted and acknowledged -- the duality of our feelings?  What if the one whose month has been a long string of rejection letters could say, fully and honestly, "I am so freaking jealous right now and I am also so, so happy for you and proud of you!"...and the person with the good news could say "I feel weird even telling you my good news because I know how those rejection letters feel but I'm really excited and proud of my work and I can't wait to tell you all about [insert opportunity here]!!!"  And then we can hug and get a drink and have said EVERYTHING we feel instead of just the socially acceptable part?

Of course, the reality is that some of my friends will be more successful than others.  Some already are. Some of us (I am convinced) will become the "big names" of our generation.  Some of us will move on to other genres less dependent on the kindness of strangers, some of us will find other outlets for our passion and creativity, and move away from playwriting altogether.  But the longer I do this, the more I think the important thing isn't "success as a playwright," the more I think it's finding a path, finding a way to create community, to listen and feel listened to.