When I was a younger writer–in my 20s–I was convinced I had it so damn hard.� I knew I had a long road ahead of me, and that I was likely years from publication (it turned out to be decades).� I was also aware that the fiction market was diminishing, and that my calling was not the noble thing�it once had been.� The odds were greatly stacked against me, and hence my wife and kids, who needed me to succeed.
This led to some pretty deep bouts of self-pity, which led to some bitterness, which made me pretty�lousy company.� That led�to many lonely nights with the typewriter,�although that�fortunately led to�several books.
But I believed I had it so rough.� I mean I was white, male, and living in the wealthiest country in the world.� Yeah, rough.
In truth, it was a�difficult struggle, requiring every ounce of mental and physical energy I could summon just to break through, which I finally did as a writer after 25 years, though my success as an art consultant preceded that.� Sure I did the dance with bankruptcy, creditors, bounced checks, maxed-out cards, etc.� But now that I’ve worked with so many Inner-City Kids, and have seen what “rough”�is really�like, I know how easy I had it.
My point?� I did a little complaining in those days, though I tried to control it, since I did on occasion�understand the importance of stoicism.� But what I should have been doing was giving thanks all along: for my talent, the opportunities at hand, the privileges I enjoyed compared to most of the world’s people, and the challenges before me.� I didn’t understand that lesson so�well then.� Now, at age 49, I’d like to believe I’ve finally learned it.� I hope you learn it far sooner than I did.� Probably you will.�