Why Success is a Crock (and What to Aim for Instead)

I’m a novelist. In my line of work, the standard indicators of success are your publisher paying for airfare and hotels on a national book tour; an effusive review in The New York Times and a recurring slot on the bestseller list; readings in far-flung cities attended by dozens of people of no relation to you; or winning a critical award accompanied by prize money you, ironically, no longer need.

This, of course, is a one-size-fits-all definition of “making it.” By this yardstick almost all published authors are failures, let alone those many writers who are still trying to publish. This is madness and I am sick of acting like it’s not.

When my second novel, Petty Magic, went out of print — my publisher effectively dumping me — I spent months feeling sorry for myself. I’d written a good novel, damn it! And everyone else’s careers seemed to be going so well! It was all so unfair!

Eventually I figured out that I’d pinned my sense of worth to the vagaries of the publishing industry, that I needed a personality upgrade more than anything else: less ambition, more humility. This was a temporary hiccup in my career, and if that hiccup was having an adverse affect on my creativity, well, that was my own doing. Had I ever paused to consider my own sense of entitlement? And how did any of this actually matter in…