I recently went to the local library book sale. It occupied a full-sized exhibition hall at the local arena, rows and rows of tables littered with books of every kind imaginable.
It was a bit daunting.
All those books, they sat as testaments to mass production. Heavy tomes and ragged paperbacks covered every topic under the sun. Several tables held a myriad of variations of romances, with its many ins and outs. Reference book after reference book after opinion book littered a whole row. Spy novels lurked amongst the others but couldn’t go unnoticed for their sheer number. My mouth watered at the cooking books, and my mind reeled at the scientific works. Sci-fi and fantasy were thick as thieves, conspiring to conquer nearly half the available space.
How could I ever hope to write anything that could add something original and worthwhile to this mountain of literary effort?
I shook my head and began to peruse, shamed by my own vain hope. Flipping through and tossing volume after volume aside, realization dawned.
It was a bit inspiring.
Of all that pulpy mass, most of it was absolute drivel. The crap that some people get published boggled my mind. There was a book about how physical education was failing our kids. All those romances were basically the same story, with slight variations on the naughty bits. If these books were so great, why were they being sold for $.25 each? This was no sea of literary greatness, but a miasma of poor judgment in publication.
Aha, if I can just keep working at it, earnestly striving to tell my story, in my way, and produce something even halfway decent, odds are actually fairly good I could be as published as these other sad sacks.
Best of luck to us all, and keep chasing that dream!