I write books. I illustrate the covers and create the title fonts. If my books are ever professionally published, it is very unlikely my covers and fonts shall be used. I may be required to change the text as well. The fiction shall no longer be my private property. It shall belong to whoever buys it from me. My art shall be reduced to merchandise.
I love my creative freedom. It does not pay the bills, however. It does not provide professional marketing. Both the writer and the fiction languish unless I sell my work.
When I was young, the very idea of selling out was unthinkable. I would sell, but on my own terms. Not anymore.
I am getting old. I already have injuries. My unskilled jobs require physical prowess I am losing. I would sell my work if given the opportunity. It would sadden me to have it published without my covers. I would hate changing the stories at someone else’s whim. I would have peace of mind, however. I would have what I need and could live comfortably.
I am learning to not care. I am too tired to bother anymore.
I write and render as best I can, always. That shall never change. It is proving not to matter, though. After all these long years and after all that hard work, I am languishing. My work languishes in obscurity and seems doomed to fade away.
I disbelieve. My ignorance was my only bliss… but now it
is simply confusion. I was proven wrong. The idealism in my fiction is fiction
indeed. I hope, for that is all I can do, that I shall be lucky enough to
eventually have the opportunity to sell out. I shall do so given the chance, but
not for fame and fortune of themselves. It is to make myself comfortable as I
await the end.