A Writer's Bitter Truth

I need a break from the horrors of the time in which we live. So let’s talk about writing.
 
A few months ago I discovered Ann Patchett. You may be familiar with her. She’s an author who has written several novels, essays, and works of nonfiction. She has received many awards. I became hooked on her work.
 
At the time of discovery, I had just finished slogging through several books that failed to hold my interest. One was a normal length novel that felt longer than War and Peace. The story advanced at a pace rivaling a turtle attacking a marathon.
 
With gratitude I set that one aside and read Patchett.
 
When I was approaching retirement, I thought it would be fun to write a mystery. I had read mysteries from the time I was a kid. Having heard the adage “write what you know,” my first two books were set in a university like the one where I had spent more than three decades and the third was about the running community of which I’d been a member for at least as long.
 
In my naivete I forwarded a synopsis of my first book to an agent who responded she would take a look at it. Feeling smug I sent the manuscript. I got it back within days along with a note wishing me luck. It was sometime later that I returned to it and then the realization hit. It was awful!
 
I fixed it up and self-published it and eventually four others.
 
Have I become rich? Ha! In a good year my royalty check might hit three dollars. Maybe 10 people have read one of the books and I believe most are friends. My latest was published through Amazon Publishing and my first three royalty payments were: $0.00.
 
Since that first debacle I’ve read books and comments by Stephen King, Pat Conroy, and Patchett about writing. Certain themes run through all three.
 

1. Each of those authors had a burning desire to write, a desire that began in their youth.
2. Each wrote and wrote and wrote, even when they were unrecognized.
3. Each willingly submitted their material to others for criticism.
4. Each read a wide assortment of works by others.

 
So, is there hope for me?
 
Not a prayer.
 
I have never had any desire that declared I had no choice of activity other than writing.
 
I have not written a lot. I have not written in a variety of formats: novels, reviews, essays, short stories, etc.
 
I have been terrified to show my work to others and have studiously avoided doing so.
 
I have read mysteries and several other books, but nothing comes close to the variety and quantity consumed by the aforementioned authors.
 
Writing good fiction doesn’t bear the slightest resemblance to writing a good mathematics paper, which I have done from time to time. In a math paper you simply don’t discuss what the symbol Pi is wearing, or how she is feeling, or her concerns about being a mother.
 
So, the bottom line is I am not currently a popular author, and I will never become a popular author.
 
But so what?
 
I enjoy the challenge of conceiving a story and trying to express it on paper (or computer).
 
And I am getting better at it.
 
Very, very slowly.
 
Uh oh! I’m feeling the urge to write another book.