Over at Romancing the Blog is a rant by author Karin Gillespie in which she complains about a self-published writer's book being on the same "local author" table in a bookstore with her own--which was released by "a large New York City publisher".
What's the big deal? I wondered. Why on earth does she think his little book will have any impact on the success of hers? And her unveiled disgust for such "dilettantes" who masquerade as "real" authors promted me to comment that although I, too, am published by a large New York City house I am still an unashamed dilettante. Yes, I was tweaking her a little, but I do see myself as a dabbler rather than an artist.
Frankly, I'm not talented or educated enough to write "seriously". In my books and here on this blog, I write for the purpose of entertaining myself first and you second. I am never going to hit the NYT bestseller list. I will never win a Pulitzer. Those things are so far beyond my talents and abilities I don't even bother aspiring to them. So I'm not a serious writer, but a dilettante.
Not that I believe there's any shame in being unremarkable. I think we can celebrate our ordinariness and have a lot of fun.
Come to think of it, isn't that just a little bit remarkable?