The Tortoise and the Hare

A long time ago but not so far away, a writer was living with one of her best friends. This woman (the writer) had always wanted to be a writer, from the time she was a little girl pouring her heart out in her diary, and she was talented and worked hard (I have read much her writing). Her friend (the roommate) was more all over the place--smart, beautiful, and clearly talented, although it was totally unclear in what. She tended to be too distracted by the details of life and her own mental struggles to do much about it. Also (and this will become important soon), the roommate was pretty set for money, for whatever reasons. The writer, as is often the case with writers, was not.

So they lived together happily, the writer toiling away at her craft (writing, revising, reading, teaching, checking in with her agent who was submitting her writing, getting rejected, writing more, revising again, struggling to come up with her half of the rent, etc.) and the roommate flitting around, cooking, dating, and wishing she had such passion and purpose. One day, inspired in part by her deep admiration for the writer, the roommate thought why don't I take a crack at writing too. So she sat down and spilled out a memoir about her particular mental struggles and how they caused her to lead her life. It was quick writing, quick reading, quite funny, and oddly touching.

The writer was excited for the roommate, knowing how she was always searching for something meaningful to do. She read the material, gave her advice and encouragement, and helped hook her up with an agent. Then, before you could utter the words "six figures"...can you guess where this is going?

The roommate got a huge book deal. It was very exciting, super quick, and for a lot of money. Now, the writer had never wanted anything but good things for the roommate, but this was a bit hard to swallow. Where was her book deal? She was the one for whom it was a life-long dream. Where was her money? She was the one who needed it, who had worked so damn hard for it. Every morning when she woke up and every night when she went to bed, there was the roommate, a sudden walking personification of everything she wanted and could not seem to get. She was consumed with envy.

For someone as kind as the writer is, a person who had taken refuge in the Buddha, this felt particularly wrong, so she went to her Rinpoche for help and he said this: every time you feel envious of the roommate, make her a salad. Do something kind, and caring, and good for her health, no matter how you feel. So that is what the writer did.

Newspapers and magazines announced the exciting book deal, and the collander in the sink filled up with greens. Wow, the publishers are throwing a big book party, something they almost never do anymore. Chop, chop, chop on the broccoli and peppers. It's been optioned for a movie! Throw in some dried cranberries, maybe hearts of palm? The Today Show appearance went great, only Oprah is left! Time to head to Chinatown for the really exotic vegetables--the grocery store is no longer cutting it.

As you can imagine, it was not an easy time for the writer. The thing is, it wasn't all that easy a time for the roommate either, no matter how it looked. She still had these same mental struggles, book deal or no, and with all of the publicity and excitement, she spun a bit out of control, began dating the wrong guy, and got involved in some things that were really not good for her, and that were very difficult to kick once you started. As the writer watched from the next room, wishing desperately that she could help but growing more and more powerless to do so, she learned something. It might take years, maybe forever, to get that book deal, but she had her writing, her passion and purpose, right now, every day. No one could take it away from her, and it was the most valuable thing in the world.

Fast forward to today: the writer is no longer in touch with the roommate, but she very much hopes she's doing well. The writer is finally supporting herself by writing books. It doesn't look quite the way she thought it would--she's left New York, and they aren't always the books she thought she'd write--but she is grateful and happy and talented and works hard, as she always has.

Blessing on all of your writing. It is the most important part.