A writer expects recognition from his peers and is unpleasantly surprised.
|There have been those times of anticipation when I thought I might have risen on the uplifting wings of confident expectation. Surely, I told myself, they will all see the merit of what I have accomplished, and spare a brief moment for applause. But, then, as I listened, I heard no sound; there were not to be heard even the faintest voices in the distance. And there was not even a gentle rapping of some late visitor at my study door. I then thought to console myself with the thought that I had not allowed enough time for even the smallest assemblage of response. This I told myself with a certain and convincing counsel. Wait a little longer, said I, the voices will be heard in due course. But, as the night lengthened the silence grew into a throbbing absence. It was then that I pledged that if this nothingness were to stand before my door I would open with none of those niceties that visitors expect to receive. My manner would not hide that I was not at all pleased with the ill-mannered absence of even the smallest acknowledgment. But my planned greeting would have to wait, for, as yet, no visitor had graced my door with so much as a faint shadow. And, as I considered the evening, I paused, frozen in a fuming thought. In that fevered moment, I imagined swinging those betrayed expectations over my head and bringing them crashing to the floor. That would at least bring some pleasing sound to this hypocritical silence. And in that silence, I ranted and raved like a man clearly mad. Why, I wondered, is so much of self-worth invested to the safe keeping of those who care so little? After all, only a fool tortures himself by seeking the approval of others. Bah! The hour is late; no one and nothing is coming, and I must go and write a few lines.|