I came across an interesting post by Emily Gould the other day.
In 2008 I sold a book-in-progress for $200,000 ($170,000 after commission, to be paid in four installments), which still seems to me like a lot of money. At the time, though, it seemed infinite. The resulting book—a “paperback original,” as they’re called—has sold around 8,000 copies, which is about a fifth of what it needed to sell not to be considered a flop. This essentially guarantees that no one will ever pay me that kind of money to write a book again.
It took me a while to realize that my book had failed. No one ever told me point-blank that it had.
It was more like the failure occurred in tiny increments over the course of two years, after which it was too late to develop a solid Plan B.
This is my nightmare. That I will have failed and, because I didn't think to set up the proper criteria for success, or because I was delusional, or not paying attention, or whatever, I wouldn't even realize it.
Maybe that's why artists go around half the time assumed they've failed. (The other half of the time, we're certain that we are geniuses ahead of our time.)
Blerg.
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