Sometimes people ask me why I write books.
“Are you hoping for a bestseller?” they snicker.
“Pfff! Don’t be silly,” I say with a depreciating little shrug. “I just want to share my work with others.” Ha! I’m lying through my teeth. OF COURSE I want my book – all my books – to be bestsellers. There; I’ve said it. So now I might just as well bare my chest for the responding heavenly thunderbolt, right?
Nothing happens. I’m still here, tapping away at my computer – for now that is. But come tomorrow … I gulp.
This concept of hubris is quite strange, isn’t it? “Beware of progress, of striving for more than you have” sort of echoes in the wind. A rather repressive approach to human progress, and thank heavens so many people have decided to ignore this and forge ahead with inventions and discoveries. Think Galileo Galilei or Isaac Newton. Or the Wright brothers, taking on the most daunting challenge of all, making us airborne. As far as I know, they weren’t smitten by divine rage, were they?
I find this thought rather comforting. In comparison with these giants, my aspirations for my books seem rather modest. Yes, maybe it is okay to hope for success, for some recognition of all the long hours invested in writing the books. With relief I pour myself a cup of tea and sit back. From somewhere to my northeast comes the low rumble of approaching thunder…