I stare at my computer screen. The little cursor blinks in the upper right hand corner of my blank Google doc. It’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to type something, anything. The page remains blank.

A couple of weeks ago, I called my grandmother. It was her birthday. Just days before that, my dad had gone over to her apartment in Waikiki and showed her a blog post that I’d written about her. I’d written it a year ago. Sometimes I just write for myself, and had never thought to show it to her.

Having played such a significant role in my life growing up, it should come as no surprise that I wanted to write about her. However, it was a surprise to her.

When I called, she mentioned multiple times how happy she was that I had written about her. How grateful she was that I had done so.

I should have immediately stopped her there. She is not the one who should be thankful.

After all, she’s the one who:

Picked me up from school every time I was “sick” and let me watch Little Bear and Troop Beverly Hills on her corduroy couch. She’s the one who made me musubi with white rice, a bit of nori, and a little dish of soyu to dip them in. She’s the one who took me and my brother to Daiei for new slippers and who brought home chocolate donuts from the 7/11 across the street. She’s the one who rubbed our feet as we fell asleep and read us stories from her unique collection of children’s books (to this day, I have vivid memories of the monster who turned out to be the narrator—a friendly muppet-like character—and the squirrel and bear who had to decorate for Christmas).

Not to mention the fact that she also:

Made sure that there were always Christmas presents from the two pet dogs (Ruffles and Ma’ia). Looked after my aunt. Took me to get manicures. And introduced me to Korean dramas.

I am the one who should be (and am) thankful.

But I didn’t say that.

Instead, I listened and let her tell me how happy she was about the blog post. I liked hearing that it made her feel special, because she is. And, between these expressions of joyful gratitude she let something slip. Something we very rarely hear from her: she told me something that she wanted.

Let me explain:

The reason it was so incredible to find out that there was something she wanted other than “to be left alone” was the fact that she’s literally impossible to buy a gift for. Whether it’s the holidays, her birthday, or just a random day on which we think she deserves a little “thank you”, she simply refuses to accept anything.

She has no interest in gifts (just more clutter for her house), no interest in visits (just something she has to prepare for), no interest in any verbal expressions of gratitude (just something awkward that she feels underserving of).

So, when she mentioned that there was something that she really wanted, I quickly took note.

What was it?

A mystery novel.

One of my grandmother’s greatest joys in life is a mystery novel. She has just about every James Patterson and Sue Grafton book ever written. And she wanted me to write one for her.

Okay, I thought as I hung up the phone, I’ll write her one.

And that was that.

Now, I know I’ve written about this more than a few times, but here we go again. Writing a book is a lot easier said than done.

Ever since I set my heart on becoming a writer (after my eight-year-old self discovered that a “draw-er”—someone who draws horses for a living—wasn’t exactly the perfect career path), I’ve wanted to write a novel.

However, I could never seem to bring myself to concentrate (or sustain my interest) in any of the stories I attempted to write. My college portfolio was the closest I’ve gotten. It was as long as a novel but consisted of short stories instead (some of which were not even finished themselves).

Now, in a previous post, I chalked this up to my lack of grit.

But in this post, I want to pose another theory: I always let comparison get in the way.

Here’s what I mean by that.

I’ve always been pretty attached to books. Especially fantasy novels. Yes. That’s right. Dragons were my thing. I even wrote a song called “Dragon Girl” when I was a pre-teen. I hoped to someday perform it with my girlband (something my friends and I talked about forming incessantly). I’m pretty sure we planned on wearing fairy wings when we performed.

I think the song went something like this:

Dragon girl, dragon girl,

I’m living in another world

So let’s just fly

Soar through the sky

With my dragon guy.

I remember being really confused (and insolent) when—after performing a beautiful rendition of this song to my mom—she didn’t seem wholly convinced that it would take me to the top of the VH1 charts. But I’m getting off track…

Anyway, these books (The Golden Compass, Harry Potter, The Immortal Series, The Mists of Avalon, and now the Red Rising trilogy). These books meant—and still mean—the world to me. They allowed me to disappear for a time, which is something I’ve always desperately needed. Reading these stories, I dissolved out of this world and became a part of something new and exciting. I “escaped” as the old cliché goes.

But these books were special for another reason as well. They introduced me to subject matter I wouldn’t have explored otherwise. They challenged me to think beyond what I saw. His Dark Materials taught me about religion. What our conception of religion looks like as well as what the pursuit of it can lead to. Vonnegut’s works taught me to re-think the way we see relationships between ourselves as well as between us and our society.

And these books not only changed the way that I read, but some of them (ahem, Harry Potter) changed the way the world read. Suddenly, kids who didn’t like to read, wanted to read. They found a sense of order, created by a combination of familiar concepts with fantastical, mind-bending alterations.

That’s exactly what I wanted to do.

I wanted to write something that people found themselves engrossed in. Something that took them out of their bodies, just for a moment, and allowed them to escape into a new world—while also challenging them to think about the one we really live in.

But seriously, how is anyone supposed to write with that goal in mind? AND with those examples.

I mean, every time I even start to conceptualize a storyline, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by everything that past authors were able to do—Aldus Huxley, Anthony Burgress…

Even contemporary authors leave me paralyzed. I already know I’m no Pierce Brown (who is only two years older than I am, which is even more intimidating… but also attractive? Hey, Pierce Brown. I’m a fan. And I’m single).

It’s been said that comparison is the thief of joy—and I have to agree.

When thinking about all of those books, all of those authors, I can’t help but feel so much lesser. So much of a downgrade from those literary idols of mine that it seems very pointless to even begin the process.

What makes it worse is that it’s not only those reining wordsmiths, but my peers as well.

Note: If you keep reading, you’re about to witness one of my brattier moments. It is most certainly not my brattiest moment, but it is still pretty cringe-worthy. Only proceed if you promise to love me anyway.

Decided to keep reading? Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

This weekend, while prepping a hat to be tie-dyed, my friends mentioned a former classmate of ours. The subject of writing had come up and they brought up the fact that she had written and published a Crime novel. A mystery novel. The exact type of novel that I’d just promised my grandma that I’d write. Hers can be bought on Amazon.

I would like to think of myself as the type of person who would be happy for anyone who publishes a book, but I have to admit that my first thought was, “She wrote a book?...”

My second thought was even worse. And my third thought was a potent mixture of self-hatred and self-pity. This girl had never shown the slightest interest in becoming an author. She had once referred to herself as “weird” for liking Harry Potter (girl, we all liked it. Just about everyone in the world loved Harry Potter. Yes, it was fantasy but liking those books does not make you a nerd…)

This was the girl who had written AND published a mystery novel???

Suddenly, I found that writing a mystery novel was the last thing I wanted to do.

Not because I was any less dedicated to my grandmother! But because I couldn’t bear the thought of being in the same category of author as her.

Now that’s a bit ridiculous, don’t you think?

I know it. You know it. But I couldn’t help but feel it. With all of my years of writing experience, I couldn’t stand the thought of being in the same realm as her. And worse, knowing that there was a good chance that her book was pretty great—and that it would be better than mine.

Worst of all was knowing that she had done it before me.

I was completely disheartened.

Now, let me add here that after this mini internal tantrum, I got over myself and decided that I would still attempt to write a mystery novel (though, sorry Nanny, I’ve yet to succeed at this task).

But still, it became obvious that comparing myself with this peer was quickly eating away at both my motivation and ability to write.

Luckily, I recently listened to a podcast interview with another author, Susan Cain. Cain actually pursued another career path before becoming a writer later on in life.

In her podcast interview, she spoke about the fact that, when under pressure, she found that she couldn’t write a single word. So, in order to pursue her love of writing, she decided to take any pressure away.

How did she doe that?

• Income came from elsewhere. She made sure that she was bringing in her income from elsewhere. That way, finishing a book wasn’t her meal ticket and she could pursue it in a thoughtful, meaningful way that wasn’t rushed.

• She didn’t need to finish her book until age seventy-five. This second technique for writing made the biggest impact on me. Cain explained that by giving herself a long-lead timeline for her first attempt at writing something, she no longer felt the unbearable weight of expectation (both from herself and others). She gave herself the goal of writing a book by the time she was seventy-five. This allowed her to write because she loved writing—though she completed her work long before that age.

I think that giving myself a similar goal will not only help to relieve any pressure I feel in terms of time constraints, but will also eliminate some of that need to compete with others. I think a lot of my anxiety about writing comes from the fact that I feel like I have to write something before someone else. My classmate wrote a mystery novel before me, so I feel like a failure.

But that’s not true at all.

First of all, I’m sure if I did write a mystery novel, it would be completely different from hers. I’m also sure that her book is probably great—and that I should just be fucking happy for her. And happy that my generation is interested in doing things like writing books instead of cyber bullying people on YouTube.

Also, it’s not like she’s the first person to ever write a mystery novel… if I’m gonna let her authorship bother me, then what am I supposed to do about Agatha Christie?

And that brings up another good point. I think allowing myself to be old before I write my first book will remove the pressure of living up to the big shots. I think for so much of my life (up until this exact moment, actually), I’ve still envisioned my life as that of a full-time author. A novelist. This allowed me to compare myself to other novelists that I admire.

If instead, I am simply a content marketer who likes to write stories on the side, I no longer need to think about how I compare to Tolkein. I no longer need to feel the pressure to write the next great American novel.

Of course, if I happen to write our country’s next life-changing book before then, so be it. But I just don’t need to feel obligated to.

There you have it. My new strategy for writing, based on the fact that comparison truly is the thief of joy. Oh, and yikes.. Now you know my terrible, inner, jealous thoughts. Love you, mean it. K, bai. H8ters can bounce. <3

*I can’t remember the specific age that she gave herself, but it was something around seventy-five. The podcast interview is one of Tim Ferriss’, so you can check it out here to find out the exact age she decided on or if you want to hear the rest of her advice/story—I highly recommend.