Elizabeth Royte writes in today’s NY Times about the misery of getting, and being, published.
For any writer, the publication of a book, labored over for years, is an
exciting event. But excitement is a fleeting emotion, and the business of
publicizing the book, so that it sells and the author can earn out his advance,
quickly displaces any initial euphoria. The writer then embarks on a tortured
journey toward acceptance of the fact, several months after publication, that
his book isn’t going to vault him into the empyrean of fame, or even improve his
life. At the intersection of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s stages of grief and
Stendhal’s stages of love, the contemporary author trudges along a predictable
path that can only be described, in hindsight, as self-induced misery.