I wish I could make a legitimate living as a writer. I tell myself that if I could, then important people in my life would recognize the value of the time I spend in devotion to my craft. I tell myself I would bring value to my family as a financial contributor, and my domestic deficiencies, as well as my aversion to authority (which makes it incredibly difficult for me to survive in the traditional workplace) would be of little consequence. I would earn appreciation, I would secure financial autonomy, and my domestic proficiency (or lack of) would carry less weight.
While I am confident that the work I produce is worthy of attention, the manifest reality is that the clatter of consumptive competition and the charisma of pop marketing greatly reduces my real chances of discovery. Herein is the sacrifice of the artist: with full knowledge that my chances of commercial success are slim, at best, I persist. My work will likely never receive the validation I genuinely believe it deserves; nevertheless, I work. I create. I produce. I publish. I post.
Otherwise, I will wither, and if I wither, so will my precious family.
The value of my work may be invisible to the world around me. I, alone, regard the priceless nature of what it is that I do. It is the foundation girding us. I cannot give up. The import of the work may be concealed to all but myself, yet to abandon the task is to consign my world (my family) to internal collapse. It is an excruciating burden to bear in solitude. However, I am resolved. The merit of my effort may never tangibly materialize, but I know its depths. I know its vitality.
And so I persist.