Some people accuse artists, or writers, of practicing their craft solely for attention. My peers may reply that the work arises in the mind either through brutish instinct, or as a conduit to a creative realm beyond human understanding.
Both the shallow and mystical can be motives. It’s not always an either/or proposition. For me, I eventually reached a very natural point of decision. Was I doing this out of love, or something else?
The answer was obvious. I worked toward being at peace, whether or not my stuff was recognized. Certain subtle changes arose in my character. Desperation died down. A pressing desire to escape dampened significantly. My hunger for plaudits vanished. Ironically enough, I found instances of regret framed by feelings interchangeable with the obsession for success.
The story could have ended there, I figure, a simple journey toward maturity. Unfortunately, though, life is usually way more complicated than that. And it would be.