Was reading about Don Miller, the author of Blue Like Jazz who, just a couple of years after writing his bestseller, went into a funk because he couldn’t seem to write another.
I’m reminding myself of this as I struggle with my own slow and small successes with the novelette. If one only feels happy when he writes a bestseller, one which continues to be a bestseller, it seems few authors, even moderately successful ones, will be happy for much of their lives. Sad. Huh?