So last night instead of sleeping (still with the insomnia), I read A Density of Souls by Christopher Rice. I said I never would, but I did.

For years, I've hated Christopher Rice. In fact, hatred doesn't even begin to cover the depth of feelings I had for him. He was too young. He was too pretty (the fact that he is physically my 'dream type' was particularly galling). He had rich parents (well, mostly his mom) and would never have to work a day in his life. He could use her contacts to get published. He could churn out reams of shit and still sell millions of books because his mom is an icon. He hadn't even published his first book and he was a darling of the gay and straight press.

When I thought of him, I could taste blood.

I went to his book signing for A Density of Souls in Manhattan. I wanted to see him in person. To look for flaws. The voice that was a little too high-pitched. The sibilant ess that escaped every now and again. The effeminate hand gestures. I gloried in all of it. Surely I wasn't the only one who could see he was a fraud.

I trashed his book. Complained about the whole Southern Gothic thing. Said that he was just ripping off his mom's style. That there was no story. That he was a hack.

Thing is, I'd never read it.

Because I was afraid. Afraid that he might actually be a good writer. Afraid that my hatred wasn't really aimed at Christopher Rice but at myself. That I was merely jealous of something that I was too scared to pursue.

So last night I finally read his book.

And it was good.

Not great, it was a first novel after all. But good. And full of promise. He is a good storyteller with an ear for dialogue and an eye for detail.

I'm going to go out and get his second book this weekend.

And I can't hate him anymore. That facade was knocked away and all I have left is my jealousy and envy. Hopefully it will motivate me instead of just eating me up inside.