World belongs to salesmen

I think the world belongs to the salesmen. After all, no matter what you have, it's useless unless you can sell lots of it to lots of people.

I just completed my, I think, seventh book. I'm losing count. Writing it was the easy part. Selling it is another matter. I'm simply no good at sales and marketing, which I discovered when I've taken sales jobs in the past, only to earn zip.

I know of a number of excellent writers who languish in obscurity because they don't know how to catch the attention of a publisher. I also know a number of artists who are at least as good as Tom Kincade, but who live on the edge of starvation. The difference is obvious. Kincade is a marketing wiz. As a painter, he's probably a bit above average, but as a salesman of his paintings, he's a genius.

During the summer, I travel to Big Sur each week for the international short film festival, where I see the greatest films by people you and I have never heard of. However, I'll bet everyone knows the names of the directors of all the summer formula blockbusters.

Then factor in the great bands that only get to play the local clubs for beer money.

Would I opt for being a formula writer in exchange for fame and fortune? That I even ask the question dooms me and proves I'll never be a salesman.