Yesterday the newest issue of School Library Journal arrived in my mailbox, and I felt a strong surge of an emotion I thought I’d kind of outgrown: jealousy.

Everywhere you look in the children’s literature world, you see the name of Elizabeth Bird and her blog, “A Fuse #8 Production.”  I’d decided that I hated her a long time ago simply based upon how often I see her name, but yesterday the (admittedly baseless) hatred turned to jealousy when I saw the cover photo of children’s literature bloggers, with Elizabeth Bird front and center.  Not only is the woman a big deal in my work world, she’s also cute, young, pretty, and well-dressed.  And she looks like someone I’d probably want to have as a friend.  Bah humbug. 

Like many of us, I had lots of visions of grandeur growing up and going through college and graduate school; I was sure that I was wicked special and that I’d make a splash somewhere, sometime.  But, let’s face it, fame and fortune are far away from the little town in which I work.  No disrespect intended towards the town, but it’s small potatoes compared to New York City and the New York Public Library, which is where Ms. Bird works.  Logically I know I’m making an impact where I am, but I’m not too likely to meet Important Children’s Authors and Illustrators in my rural library.  Nor will I be invited to serve on the Newbery Award Committee, or write articles for the Horn Book magazine.  (I barely survived six months of writing entry-level reviews for the Horn Book Guide – what a slog that was.)  I imagine that Elizabeth Bird probably bumps into famous authors and illustrators just buying her morning coffee before work.  There’s no place to buy coffee in the town in which I work – no downtown, really, other than the library and the schools and the churches – and no money to buy that coffee, anyway.

I’d also love to know how the object of my friendly jealousy manages to find the time to write intelligent blog posts every day, and read lots and lots of current children’s books, while working as a children’s librarian.  Surely she must have a staff at her disposal?  Surely she’s mostly responsible for the big picture stuff, not all the nitty gritty details of storytimes and patron service?  Because I’m a pretty energetic person, and I come home at the end of a work day drained and with little creativity left to write a blog post.  Not to mention that I rarely feel like looking at a computer screen in the evenings after having spent an entire day working in front of a computer.

Or maybe she’s able to write her blog posts at work?  Could it be that she even gets to read children’s books at work?  That would be a dream come true for me.  Though I truly love what I do at my job, I do feel like I’m becoming further and further removed from the analytical and theoretical side of children’s books that I so loved in graduate school.  In recent days I’ve spent more time applying copious amounts of hand sanitizer than I have thinking about Reader Response theory.  Actually, I don’t think that Reader Response theory has entered my mind more than once or twice in the last year.  But I’ve thought a lot about how to project my voice at storytime or keep the kids in my book groups focused or how to locate the books that kids have been burying in odd places in the stacks.

So I guess it’s official: I’m jealous because I know that my chance to Be All That has passed me by.  And it surely doesn’t help things at all that I didn’t make good use of my internship at the Horn Book to make connections with people there like Roger Sutton.  Like most professions, to “be someone” in the children’s literature world you have to work someplace important, like New York City, and you have to have powerful friends in the business.  In my hidden little corner of the world, I’m never going to make headlines.

But at least I’m a rock star to the kids who come to my library.  And if I were smart and mature, I’d be happy with that.