I suppose the first item on this essay’s agenda is to explain why I call myself an “aspiring artist” when I have numerous traditional publishing credits and have self-published thirty-five books. Perhaps at least part of the explanation lies in the subtitle I considered but ultimately didn’t use: Why am I not rich and famous? Admittedly the “rich” part of the question is rendered tongue-in-cheek. The majority of writers, even well-known ones, are not rich. Early on, though, in my infatuation with writing, I envisioned myself eventually being able to live in some sort of writer’s mansion such as Jack London’s Wolf House. (Of course even for London this didn’t end well; Wolf House was all but completely built when a fire broke out and burned it down to its stone foundations – a disaster that London never really recovered from.) A more realistic vision of wealth for a writer is found in Inside Michael Swanwick, a book I recently read and reviewed. Swanwick says, “I went into this business with my eyes pretty wide open. Part of my plan was poverty.” And: “Once you decide that you’re not going to live as well as a certified public accountant that makes a lot of things possible! One of the things it makes possible is that you get to write whatever you want. I chose freedom over money.” I choose freedom too, any day. Forget the writer’s mansion. I would be satisfied just to make enough through my writing to eke out a lean living. Even that seems beyond my reach. And as for fame, I’m not talking about world renown, although that would be sweet, but I would appreciate it if at least a modicum of readers were familiar with my work.

So what is behind my profound obscurity? Here are some reasons I have mulled over in my darker moments.

I have no talent. I don’t really take this one seriously. After all, a lot of editors have selected my work to appear in magazines and anthologies and have paid me for it – sometimes just a small amount, and sometimes much more. One story has been reprinted in anthologies several times. Writing of the anthology where it made its first appearance, one reviewer stated that my story alone was worth the price of the book. A filmmaker came across another of my stories and was so impressed he bought short film rights and optioned feature length rights. I know the language and I have the necessary sincerity; when I was young I was so desirous of writing true words that I left everything familiar and set off on the road to discover what life was really all about – so I could write about it.

Editors are undiscerning. I don’t believe this one either. In fact, I respect most of the editors to whom I have submitted work. I have even met several of them at conventions and other events. However, I think sometimes they (or their first readers) are inundated by stories and that good work must sometimes slip under their radars, but that’s not their fault.

Readers are undiscerning. Well, many readers are undiscerning. This is obvious when you consider the quality of a lot of items that make bestseller lists. But in my case, I am not good at self-promotion, and they can’t purchase what they have never heard of.

I took a hiatus that lasted too long. This could be part of the problem. I started writing seriously in the early seventies when I was in my late teens. While I was living overseas, I stopped for a couple of decades. These were the years when my contemporaries were steadily producing and making names for themselves. By the time I resumed and started selling stories, I was almost fifty.

I had no chance to network. My wife and I were raising our family in Greece when I once again took up the writing torch. I knew no other writers in southeastern Europe, let alone Greece. It was even difficult to send my stories to market in the days before electronic submissions. I didn’t attend my first science fiction convention until I moved back to the States when I was almost sixty.

I relied too much on self-publishing for my novels. This is possible. However, as I mentioned above, my isolation in Greece made it initially difficult to submit material to agents and publishers. When we finally got internet and I learned about the phenomenon of self-publishing, it seemed to be a good option for me. My main problem with this, I think, is my aversion to self-promotion.

The publishing universe is capricious and unpredictable. Now we’re getting somewhere. In the ever-changing world of publishing, trends come and go; additionally, magazines and anthologies have limited numbers of openings and many good stories are turned down for lack of space. I’ve had sales, but I’ve also had near misses when editors did not buy stories but told me how much they liked them.

Every person’s path is different and this precise spot is where my destiny has led me. I have met a lot of other writers who produce excellent work but, like me, remain largely unrecognized. These things happen. Who knows why? But that’s the reason that in my seventies I am still an aspiring writer. I am continually writing and sending out stories and publishing books. I have occasional victories and frequent setbacks. You have to have thick skin in the writing game; you have to be able to persevere in the face of rejection. And it hurts, let me tell you. Every time. I suppose there is no culmination, really, this side of death. I can’t imagine retirement from something I love so much. So I keep going, hoping for more, hoping for better, hoping to break through to a wider audience. Onward!

I’m a professional writer; I make my living by my words.  I’m happy to share these essays with you, but at the same time, financial support makes the words possible.  If you’d like to become a patron of the arts and support my work, buy a few of my available books or available stories, or support me on Patreon.  Heads Up: I haven’t been keeping up with my Patreon posts recently – if you head over there it should be for purely philanthropic motives.) Thanks!