The feelings of hopelessness are just beginning to set in. (Don’t end a sentence with a preposition.)
Soon will come despair. It’s usually at that point that I give up with the marketing efforts.
It takes a little bit of rationalization. But not a lot. It starts with the idea that many of the greatest artist in the western world were not appreciated in their life time. Mozart, Monet, Van Gogh, Austin, Blake, Mary Shelly (her husband was fine). Then the thought continues, many of the artist I like are not appreciated enough in this time. The Wachowskis, Rockwell, McDonagh (though he is starting to receive critical recognition even if the box office is lagging), Norton.
The thought culminates with: The point is to live a creative life, not a commercial life. I am unwilling to make the changes to my work to make it more commercial. And I feel like to chase a commercial goal is to waste time. The fear is it will never be enough. I’ll always want one more reader, one more review, five more dollars. (This last bit is COMPLETE bullshit, but I like telling myself this lie anyway.)
So I end in a place where I redefine success as what I have already achieved, and then I give up –marketing, not writing. I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing.
But that’s not going to happen this time.
We are acknowledging the pattern; we are forgiving our past selves for past failures; we are going to stop using the royal we; and I am going to continue in my efforts even it seems fruitless, pointless, and really hurts my ego.
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