What's the Point of Writing

Poor little old me, feeling sorry for myself again, feeling like my writing isn't worth a damn. 

The truth, of course, is that it ISN'T worth a damn.

I was fairly proud of myself when I got that review in Publisher's Weekly. I thought, "Wow, this is really something! This is real validation." And when I found out that I'd sold a 100 copies, I thought, "Hey, not bad!" Not bad for a nothing release from a nobody. 

But months later, I'm still a nobody. And those 100 copies...that's it. That's the reward for obsessively writing and re-writing a book. It took me a decade. And my reward is a little royalty money and a pat on the back. Should I be grateful? 

But it's not like I put the same effort into promoting the book. Far from it. I've been pretty quiet about it. Sometimes out of shyness and a sense of inadequacy. Other times, out of laziness, or because I was busy. 

Hard work. Dedication. Love of the craft. I do not exemplify these qualities.

But I'm not going to quit, am I? Out of spite, maybe. Out of vanity. Out of some misguided feeling that I can turn it around. That I can work harder and smarter, and one day, overcome the worst of my tendencies.

My brain tells me I'm sucking up oxygen that other people could be using for better things.

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