What if nobody cares? What if all I become is some shit mediocre writer whose decrepit manuscripts see no more light of day than the small hands of hopeful posterity, searching for some sort of meaning in their uninteresting ancestory? What if I only sell those four copies of that one people-pleasing book that actually turned out to not be very people-pleasing after all?
What if I’m stuck in the corporate grind of this fucked up bureaucratic world I despise because it’s the only way to make a dime?
What if my stories don’t touch, move, and sate others like they do me? What if they are meaningless? What if I have nothing interesting to say?
Maybe this will go nowhere. Maybe I’m the only one who cares. Maybe I’m the only one who should care, I don’t know. Maybe my dream is meant to die. Along with all the meaning and angst and expression I’ve poured into it.
There are millions upon millions of writers who never sell more than 100 copies of any book they write. Maybe I’m just average. Is it so bad to be one of them? I don’t know. I guess they made it work somehow. Maybe that’s my destiny. To learn the eternal lesson that popularity isn’t the ultimate goal and doesn’t bring satisfaction and happiness.
Easier to believe when your livelihood doesn’t depend on popularity…
Or maybe someday I’ll hit it big. And my words will mean something. And people will relate. And feel. And gain. And it will make a difference. And it will feel like all the hard work paid off. And I’ll wonder how ever doubted myself; How i ever thought I might not be good enough; how I ever wondered if my creative genius could be counted amongst the Scorcessees, Dickinsons, Webers, or Kings if the world.
And maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll be the only one who cares.
Will that be enough?