RobArt Penguin

My daughter and I were at a bookstore because she wanted to get the latest book in one of her favorite series. She had been waiting two years. The author was very successful, 16 million copies sold worldwide. I felt a pang in my heart. Maybe it was envy, but I think it was a realization that down deep I’ve always wanted to be an author. Writing stories is the way I sort out many things in my life: beliefs, worries, bad memories and aspirations. Early on, however, that avenue was shut off in me. I stopped dreaming, only to re-awaken went I went to law school, of all things. I started writing–a lot, but the author/publishing part came decades later, because writing was just a “hobby.” It took me my whole life to honor my deepest desire. I know there are a ton of writers out there, some who become authors, some who become independent/self-published authors, so I tell myself not to get too depressed about not getting the glorious brass ring of a full-blown publisher. Even though there are a lot of commercially published books, it’s only a small percentage of the talent out there. Like any art form, it’s a pyramid, For example, in the movie biz, for each A-list actor there are thousands of want-to-be actors that never get attention. Sure, one can work at getting noticed and hope for the big break–that brass ring, but much of it is chance. If my writing had flourished when I was young and I pursued it, maybe I would have a huge following now. I’ll never know and I have to resist the feeling that life has cheated me. I self-published in 2023. I’ll see where it goes. I’m better off having done something, achieving some of my goals. I guess I got a plastic ring, which I can paint to look like brass.