“Any man who keeps working is not a failure. He may not be a great writer, but if he applies the old-fashioned virtues of hard, constant labor, he’ll eventually make some kind of career for himself as writer.” —Ray Bradbury
The first story the Writer ever shared with fellow human beings was unanimously hated by said humans. One of them said, about the Writer, that he was either a retard or fourteen years old.
But he kept writing. One bad story after another. He kept reading, as if to accumulate all the words the Great Writers, the ones before him, had ever put down on paper.
He wrote and wrote and wrote. Most stories, he never even finished. He deleted more words than he kept, and of those he kept, only a small fraction he let others read. There a stories he read over and over again and edited until he couldn’t stand the thought of having to read them one more time.
The Writer was once fourteen and retarded. He worked real hard for things not to stay the same. They wouldn’t have, anyway. This year he would have been twenty seven and retarded.