Writers live in a constant weather system of comparison: rankings, reviews, prize lists, book deals, festival invitations, follower numbers, apparent momentum.

Some envy is status envy. It says: Why them? Why not me?

But there’s another kind — artistic envy. The twinge when someone has made something so good that we think: I wish I’d done that.

That kind of envy might not be poisonous. It might be a signal. It reminds us what we admire, what standards we still care about, and what kind of work we want to make.

Sometimes envy doesn’t make us smaller. Sometimes it sends us back to work.