A Book By Any Other Name

It always happens: the moment I commit to an idea, put a stake in the ground and say, "I'm going to write about THIS," I discover a book by someone else who got to the idea first. Usually, the someone else is famous, the book is fabulous, and my sweet idea is crushed before it even sees the light of day.

It happened again just this past weekend. I had finally taken the time to get this idea about migraines out of my head (ha ha) and onto the page. This is an idea that's been fermenting in my mind for about ten years. I was waiting for the right structure, the right concept, the right alignment of the planets, and suddenly, I got all that, and began to write. I powered out 40 pages, felt pretty good about what I had, and then got pulled into the vortex that is amazon. I thought, "I'll just look and see if this title is available." I logged on, looked around, did not find anything with my fantastic title -- but found The Book. A migraine memoir, beautifully told.

I ordered it (of course!), with rush shipping (why not?) and within 24 hours, was holding in my jealous little hands. It was as beautiful in person as it had been as a promise. A lovely cover, a powerful title, opening words that took my breath away. I gobbled that book up like it was chocolate, and then marinated in my own agony for a couple days. You know the kind of agony of which I speak: the world doesn't need another migraine book; I'm not as good a writer as this guy, anyway; my idea was stupid; I should have written it five years ago, blah blah blah.

And the you know what I did? Polished up my 40 pages and sent them off to my agent for a professional evaluation. Because I'm not the one to get to decide what the world needs and doesn't need. All I can do is write what I feel compelled to write. After all, even if there are 100 books about migraine, there is not one written by me.