Does success spoil the average novelist? Are most of us equipped to become Dan Browns, J.K. Rowlings, or John Grishams? What happens when by fate or luck or sheer talent, you leave 99% of your colleagues behind and zoom up there into the upper stratosphere of publishing? Do you become instantly friendless? Does trust become something you hoard or eliminate? Can you believe anything your agent, editor or publisher say to you?
I don't know the answers, but I'll be happy to serve as a test lab rat*.
Actually I'm wary of too much success. I haven't the wardrobe or temperment for it. I don't much like what it does to some people in the cranium and posterior departments. What goes up? Must come down. I've also observed the overnight success types becoming instant whipping posts for anyone with an envy grudge. The money is nice, but the cost to your soul may be a little hard to handle.
Now that you're properly depressed, any questions for me this week?
*My answer is yes, btw, to anyone who wants to offer me a couple of million for my next book. I'm crabby, cautious and suspicious, but I'm not stupid. And think of all the book touring money you'd save on me...