Jealousy, Paranoia and other Writerly Ailments

There's a song in Avenue Q entitled Schadenfreude, below are a snippet of the lyrics:

Right now you are down and out and feeling really crappy
I'll say.
And when I see how sad you are
It sort of makes me...
Happy!
Happy?!
Sorry, Nicky, human nature-
Nothing I can do!
It's...
Schadenfreude!
Making me feel glad that I'm not you.

This week, I read the NY Times review of Bill Clinton's book. If you haven't read it, you should take a look:
NY Times stoning of Bill
Wow. It's hard to feel sympathy for an ex-president, living in a county that I can't afford, going to parties that I'll never go to, and getting eight-figure advances just because he had the misfortune to sleep with a person he worked with.

It's really hard to feel sympathy…. Really, really, hard to feel sympathy….

But you know what? I do. I read that review, and despite my best intentions to snicker and mock, I felt his pain. And I'm wondering if he's hurting about it, too. Can he laugh about it like most authors do, all the while secretly wondering if anyone will notice if a certain reviewer mysteriously "disappears" – forever?

We writers live with conflict in our books, over and over again. So does that make us more susceptible to things such as jealousy, paranoia, schadenfreude? Or does everyone get this way every now and then? I don't know.

I do know that every now and then I get twinges that I don't want to get, feelings that I wish I didn't feel, but I do. It's easier to just admit it, get it out in the open, and then move on. For me, the more dangerous thing is when my set of expectations for my career becomes skewed. When I start expecting things that statistically probably will not happen. Has that happened? You betcha. And when it does, God comes around and whaps me right on the ass. It's funny how that works.

Will I end up a New York Times bestseller, with flashy book parties? Will I ever get an eight-figure advance? Don't know. It's too early to tell that. And if I do, will there be some new writer building a voo-doo doll in my image? Waiting for me to trip up and fall, preferably flat on my ass?

Probably. It's Schadenfreude.