This entry from Thoreau’s diary resonates. I think it resonates with any creative person who struggles to value his own work of any type, within the constraints of what success is popularly considered to be. To be able to look at his huge library of unsold copies of a single self-published volume of one of his works and see mainly the fruit of his labors is an admirable accomplishment in itself. That he seems entirely sincere is another. He was proud to have written. Pleased. Satisfied. And eager to write more, for the pleasure of having written. A man to admire and try to emulate in our age of shifting publishing models, deep frustrations, and even deeper, if transient, joys. Though technology changes constantly, it seems the writing life remains largely the same. The lesson I take to heart from Thoreau is to live to write, wring every bit of joy possible from that, and be very grateful for the wonderfulness whenever it comes along as part of it.

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