A Great Work

When I was young, I wanted nothing more than to one day publish a novel. Over time, I realised that being published will not solve my problems, or make me feel better. I’ve seen people I know achieve the sort of success I longed for and end up unhappy. And, besides that, the novel is a less important form than it was thirty years ago. I did try for a long time. I have four finished novels, two of them that I think are good. I made a few attempts to sell them, and eventually settled down to other things. The submission of my work is the bit I hate about it most – the rejection cuts too deep and it makes me enjoy writing less. If someone reached out and asked to publish a book of mine, I’d be eager; but I’m not interested in begging for it. It’s the same with self-promotion. My enjoyment of my work is a fragile thing, and taking up strangers’ time by demanding they read it proves too much for me. There are risks to not submitting my work, of not having anything to calibrate against, but…