What constitutes success?
Take my man Stephen Foster. He was America's first professional songwriter. He drank too much and his marriage suffered. His songs are still performed today. He died broke at 37.
He wrote "Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair" but his wife had already left him.
Is that success or failure?
Or is the paradigm irrelevant?
I'm thinking about myself, of course.
I've never been cut-throat ambitious. I've written all my life, but never worked particularly hard at getting published. I have publication credits here, there and over yonder, but not what you'd call a career. And do I care? No, not really.
I'm living my life on my own terms. That's what matters to me.
Take my man Stephen Foster. He was America's first professional songwriter. He drank too much and his marriage suffered. His songs are still performed today. He died broke at 37.
He wrote "Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair" but his wife had already left him.
Is that success or failure?
Or is the paradigm irrelevant?
I'm thinking about myself, of course.
I've never been cut-throat ambitious. I've written all my life, but never worked particularly hard at getting published. I have publication credits here, there and over yonder, but not what you'd call a career. And do I care? No, not really.
I'm living my life on my own terms. That's what matters to me.
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 08:52 am (UTC)HePo
no subject
Date: 2005-02-28 09:07 am (UTC)Richard Cory
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Edwin Arlington Robinson