I don't mind the wait. Where it may bother some writers to imagine thirty more years until recognition comes along, it doesn't phase me much. It will come, so I will work on my craft (and my patience) until it finds me.
I don't need an exact date. When it shows up, I'm here... hoping I'm worthy.
But, the thing causing me friction and fuss is the lack of a guarantee. Nothing in life is guaranteed, sure, but the thought that it might never come agitates me.
I write because I love to create. I write because I can't not. It gives me joy.
I like genuinely reaching out to people, both readers and other writers.
There are aspects, however, I wouldn't pursue if this was for naught. I wouldn't worry about social media as much (or would go about it differently). I wouldn't read books on marketing. Submitting my work would occur at a pace sedate, not feverish. I could connect with other writers without worrying about angles or possible quid pro quo.
As a writer, I'm supposed to be as marketing-minded as any entrepreneur. And... I'm not. I'm supposed to have thick skin, no matter how many rejections I've received or how cruelly they're worded. I'm getting better at it, but will never be immune.
I work hard. A lot of us do. We love words, but it doesn't negate the real effort, time, and energy it takes to build an audience and make headway... or to hone our craft.
I can take thirty more years without a real readership, of fumbling around in the dark. But, during the difficult parts, a promise of a fulfilled future would make things just a bit easier to cope with.
Wouldn't that be a balm for the soul, a promise that all your hard work will pay off? I want one, too! Art though often doesn't find an audience during the artist's lifetime. Or not a large one. The thing I remind myself is that I don't have to have a large audience to be a "success" at this. If something I've written touches someone, just one someone…well, that counts for something too.
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Balancing Act
Poets find even less readers than fiction writers, the majority of the time. I once received an email from a complete stranger (an editor) saying she enjoyed my poem in Polu Texni. I rarely know if anyone even reads my stuff, let alone what they thought.
DeleteOutside of my husband reading my work to help me catch errors, no one else in my family even reads this blog, much less my poetry (except on occasion, if published).