“When will I know I’m a real writer?”
Being younger (and certifiably dumber), I imagined the answer would be something like:
- Mansion and starlets rubbing coconut oil on my aching fingers.
- Riots at my book-signings
- Tabloid reports about my coke-fueled binges on croissants and women of questionable virtue during lost weekends in Vegas.
(With bonus suspicious white powder)
When younger (see above), I was expecting certain kinds of evidence to confirm that I was a “writer.” The fruits of success would be the proof.
And when those fruits (as I conceived of them) didn’t appear, I was downcast. I failed to achieve the rewards, and thus I was a failure.
Then, as so often happens when we’re not looking, …