We really shouldn't speak ill of other people in our beloved hobby too often. The past-time is our happy place, our respite from life's burdens, our mental island getaway. So let us not talk about others. Let us speak ill of the one person in this hobby we know best.
In this case, that would be me. (If you want to write about yourself in the comments, feel free.)
Did you happen to see any pictures of from this past weekend's Bear Mountain conference? Ah, the jealousy I have of all those folks who got to hang out with fellow Sherlockians at a good-looking resort, listening to clever talks, having great conversations about all sorts of things Sherlockian . . . what bits have trickled out on social media definitely made me envy my friends who got to be there.
But travel envy is natural, right? New York, Atlanta, those local scions that are going back to in-person meetings . . . none of us can be everywhere, and, oh, sometimes we'd like to be. Envy is totally natural when it comes to events and places full of people.
But in Sherlockiana, there are so many other things to be envious of, if that emotion comes easy to you. Someone publishes a book that you wish you had written. Someone makes it to Reichenbach Falls on vacation. Someone deep dives into research and finds a hidden vein. This hobby is so full of people doing what they love, about things they love, in so many different ways that no matter what you're into, you're going to be jealous of someone at some point.
I mean, I totally am. All the time.
"Fan" is short for "fanatic," and you know how far fanaticism can go. It has its own form of greed, as that thing you love is your gold, and you want to hoard it like a dragon. Now, the lay-up right here would be to talk about collectors. But at this point in my life, I don't envy collectors. All that material to care for, lug around, and never quite giving you that same joy as the day you acquired the thing.
And I'm a writer, which means my collection are the things people let me put on their shelves, or in publications they collect. And that collection is rather small, and not as widespread as some others. Does that make me jealous of writers whose books populate my shelves? Oh, yes.
And we Sherlockians have a marvelous history of people to be envious of.
Helen E. Wilson, who wrote a paper for her college journal in 1989? Yeah, a little jealous. Ronald Knox for giving what might have been the best talk ever. Yeah, pretty jealous. Vincent Starrett and that poem of his alone? Wooooo. Edgar Smith's charming intros to The Baker Street Journal, Baring-Gould's Annotated, Elliott Kimball's irritating pamphlet Watsoniana . . . yes, yes, yes. But it doesn't stop there.
I think if my inner fanatic had his way and a genie, you'd see something like the Sherlockian version of the movie Yesterday, where a Beatles fan wakes up in a world in which they never existed and proceeds to write all their songs. Not for the fame. Not for the recognition. Just to live every stepping stone on the road to our current Sherlockian world. It's a level of greed that makes Scrooge McDuck or C. Montgomery Burns pale in comparison.
I suspect there's a level of fandom where you don't just want to do everything everyone in the fandom every did, you just want to be the entire fandom, aggregating the whole in a group mind that is now you, like some Doctor Who villain would do. A horrific monkey's paw scenario where you would accomplish your goal and then realize there was no one left besides yourself to talk to about Sherlock Holmes.
A little envy is good. It motivates us to compliment our friends and appreciate their talents. Too much and you get the bitter old gate-keepers who want to tell the kids to keep off their lawn. And wayyyyy too much, you wind up with . . . well, I don't want to define it too well in case I get there and don't want to tip off my Doctor Who level plans. (I'll leave one of you to talk to, though. I figured that much out now.)
"Blogging: Where future Moriartys are working out tomorrow's plans today."
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