Recognize: it’s a slog. A zine article, a book review, a story in a journal of a small state U, maybe a little magazine play. Then you do a book and it sells 200 copies; but that don’t pay no rent, hoss.
But you still write. It’s what you bloody do.
What happens (I think and I hope) is that you get so disabused of the notion of fame or money that you do, actually, begin taking your work very seriously. Suddenly, uninterested or unable to please anyone but yourself, you start telling your truth. Then you get good, and you get serious.
It’s the work. It always was the work.
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