I don’t expect myself to ever be a bestseller or anyone acclaimed. That’s just my reality whether I like it or not.
This reminds me of Snippet’s story about the man who made wooden potato men..

I find myself trying to spin this very important thought into a kind of positive mantra. With seven billion people in the world, and technology that allows everyone to publish their writing, the chances that any of us will become “famous authors” has got to be worse than winning the lottery. Even if what we write is truly “great.” Yes, somebody like William Butler Yeats is a great poet, but his being recognized has as much to do with timing as it does the quality of his work. I just looked it up, and there were only 1.6 billion people in the whole world when Yeats was writing. And the number of actual published writers was tiny. Which is not to disparage Yeats, because he really was magnificent. But I do think a writer thinking about greatness in that way made a sort of sense in 1900 that is just ludicrous today. We simply live in a different world. I think there’s a transformative, positive thought in there somewhere. Like, public greatness is impossible now, so strive for personal greatness. Or even better, for personal joy in being creative.

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