What I’m reading.

Women, by Charles Bukowski. A novel of unrepentant womanizing, with nods to the writing life….

Page 140 (from the 8th printing by Ecco/HarperCollins):

There is a problem with writers. If what a writer wrote was published and sold many, many copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold a medium number of copies, the writer thought he was great. If what a writer wrote was published and sold very few copies, the writer thought he was great. If what the writer wrote never was published and he didn’t have the money to publish it himself, then he thought he was truly great. The truth, however, was that there was very little greatness. It was almost nonexisistent, invisible. But you could be sure that the worst writers had the most confidence, the least self-doubt. Anyway, writers were to be avoided, and I tried to avoid them, but it was almost impossible. They hoped for some sort of brotherhood, some kind of greatness. None of it had anything to do with writing, none of it helped at the typewriter.

 

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