Scrooge McDuck couldn’t get enough of what he thought he wanted. He was never happy with what he had.
No matter how much money and things he collected, he always wanted more. Sound familiar?
[Editor’s note: strong language after the jump]
Even if you’re not a materialistic, greedy bastard, you want more from your writing career. But what’s so bad about that? It’s ambitious, right? For some, we want our writing to be our career, and so ambition and wanting more is a catalyst for that success we envision.
Writing makes me happy. I am likely not talented enough to see my writing rise above most other independent writers’ work and so I must accept that the term career does not signify the end of my day job. So logically, my objective then is to write for my own sanity, and when I choose to make it public, the bonus feature is to receive accolades and critique from other trusted peers–writers, friends, strangers–who take the time to read my work.
So that should be enough, right? RIGHT?
Sometimes I feel like Scrooge McDuck, who always wants more out of the words I put on paper. I struggle as the victim of the competitive spirit of the little industrious writing community, even despite my fiercely independent status. I want to earn more fans and readers. I want people to love my work and discuss it. I want Focus Features to come knocking to make films of my stories.
And then I feel shame. I should be pleased and content with having the ability to write what I can.
Oh fuck that.
[picture credit: Walt Disney Company, all rights reserved]
This is a cross-posting from Lenox Parker’s Eat My Book.