I hate it when I come across a much better writer than me. I've never been particularly good at losing, or coming second (or winning, for that matter, so I usually just don't get involved in competition). But with writing, the skill I want to spend my life acquiring and using, I have to play ball, take part in this game of comparisons. So take a look at this guy: www.make-believe.org. Checklist: young (tick) male (tick) local (tick) uni student (tick) kickass writer (tick). And understand my frustration. It's quite amazing - within the short time I've been aware of this site/guy's existence, I've automatically - automatically, without thinking about it or planning it in any way - tried to rationalise his superior skills out of existence, out of contention. He's probably 28. He's probably had lots more life experiences. That's why he writes impressive poetry and pens superior blog posts. God, it shits me that I do this. And also he exists. I mean, I'm a lot better at writing now than I was four years ago, when I started uni, started writing for Farrago. I can still remember one of my opening sentences for a piece on the Cave Clan (www.caveclan.org - check them out, tag along). I was Grand Master of Purple Prose. Check this: "It is Friday night, and I am 4 metres underneath South Yarra in a huge stormwater drain called Anzac. From down here I can see the legs of the painted people of the night." Painted people of the night, indeed. I've thankfully improved since then, but I'm still drawn towards flowery/emotive language; I am still attracted by obscure adjectives. This person, this, the compared, seems a cut above; intelligence without overt elitism, polish without glitz.

The common refrain of my jealousy is this: discovery, resentment, undermining, grudging respect, mild plagiarism.

When it's Jonathan Franzen, for some reason it's ok. He's in America, he's forty, and although I'd like to write a book someday, someday is nowhere near now. But this is a lot closer to home. Demigods are high enough above to worship without jealousy. But the trappings of aspirational writers (such as myself) include a decent dose of envy.

In other news, and as a self-esteem counterweight to the previous bit, I've had a couple of articles published in the paper, which is arguably the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long while. The sheer bloody terror of realising I have no idea of how to write a news story, followed and mingled in with the slow relief of my automatic writing skills kicking in, the snipping, note writing, the untidy threads up and down the page, the piecing together, culling, rewording, refocussing, restructuring, the cleanup of stray sentences and the polishing. For all that, they still haven't been brilliant, but who's ever satisfied with their own work? It got published (after being lightly shredded by the subs) and my name and my words were ferried out around Melbourne and beyond, and people presumably read them (on the morning of my first article, an acquaintance: "Oh, was that you? I half-read that piece"). I floated home, got drunk and loud with my housemates and fell asleep, looking at the ceiling, dreaming dreams in the soft warmth of alcohol and pride. Right now, I want this. I want to be this life.