![]() Her success is evidence of a chaotic universe utterly lacking in value, and that provides perverse comfort. James, whose Fifty Shades of Grey success feels freakish and undeserved. It is a truly beautiful book and held yet more evidence of our similarities. I laughed, I wept, I practically lost a toenail, I was so engrossed by it. So I went home and read Wild furtively on my Kindle, and dammit, I fucking loved it. Of course, at that point, I hadn’t actually read her book yet. Even our day hike was paltry compared to her mighty trek on the Pacific Coast Trail. But underneath we knew we were simply feeling the bitter injustice that came with the territory of not being Cheryl Strayed. We ragged on our feckless spouses, our useless agents, on Joyce Maynard’s hair. We bemoaned the state of being middle-aged, mid-listers in a dwindling freelance market. Here we were - women all in possession of good health, loving families, interesting, paid writing lives, and yet we tromped along like a quartet of Grimm Fairy Tale stepmothers spewing verbal toads and lizards out onto the trail. We agreed she was a fine writer, but so were so many others we knew, including ourselves, so why did she get the brass ring? We let it fly the begrudging admiration for her work, the bewilderment at the seemingly random nature of her success and how people seem to be overreacting to a book that was, yes, wonderful, but not so much more wonderful than books that other people we knew had written, such as, oh, us, for instance. All we could talk about was, you guessed it, Cheryl Strayed, and that's when the knives came out. The next day I went for a hike with three lady pals who are all accomplished, published writers, and had also attended the event. That night I friended her on Facebook, getting in under the wire before her page exploded with friend requests from a grateful nation of fans. Strayed seemed appreciative, if a bit taken aback by it all. I did too, kvelling over her Sugar column, congratulating her on her success. Nooooo… We are all in it for each other, after all, because we’re lovely, supportive gentlewomen, and the Sisterhood is sacred.Īfterward the audience, mostly women and mostly writers, swarmed Strayed, practically prostrating themselves at her feet. Whereas a man will flex and posture like an alpha before his perceived competitor, a woman will practically petit point her own shortcomings on a lavender sachet and gift it to her rival in an attempt to distance herself from the stink of her own uncomfortable feelings. When women are jealous, we often tend to display a beta dog-like admiration toward those we envy. This woman, a powerful, eloquent being, Strayed's equal in gift, made light of herself and her own accomplishments as a way of paying tribute to Strayed. She read an excerpt from her book, and was interviewed by a friend of mine, who is an oft-published and brilliant writer in her own right. ![]() I was trying to inoculate myself against further disgruntlement. That's when all hell broke loose and I went down the rabbit hole.Ī week after Wild’s publication, trying to keep my nose above the rising tide of my own self-loathing, I went to see Strayed at a local literary soiree. Then, about ten minutes after Strayed blew the cover off her Sugar bowl, her memoir Wild was published and Strayed became the instant darling of the literary world. I can honestly say that at that point I wasn’t bitter. But thoughts like that are par for the course around here. She is close, personal friends with several of my close, personal friends and when I heard that I actually had the thought that maybe if I hadn’t wasted so many good years smoking dope with some of these friends, with my head up my ass, I might have a beautiful, insightful paid column of my own now. Sugar was not some frowzy housewife safely tucked away in a Southern kitchen among gingham curtains and curling linoleum, but a groovy Minnesotan, living in Portland with social/cultural credentials that nearly matched my own. I had been reading and loving the Dear Sugar column on the Rumpus for a few months when I learned, along with the rest of the world, that Ms. And that’s okay, Sweet Pea - because I’m going to take the hit for you. ![]() I know that there are some of you out there who feel the same way, though maybe even now, now that I’ve said it, you still can’t admit it, because to do so would expose you to yourself as the jealous wretch you secretly are. ![]() I’m having a Cheryl Strayed problem - her success makes me feel like a failure. ![]()
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