November 1, 2015
Years ago, when I was yet a beginning fiction writer, I met a British novelist of many slim published novels. She was a house guest of a friend. My impression from talking with her was that she wrote “nice stories,” not distinctive, not in any particular genre, simply “mild” mainstream.
I did not think she earned a great deal of money from each novel, rather just enough to stay afloat.
I asked her the following question: “But is your writing getting better with each novel?”
She answered, “No.” Her voice was full of disappointment. “I am too busy writing.”
She had become a commercial author, trapped.
One writer who RISKED continually was William Faulkner.