Failure Magazine touts itself as "the online publication full of humankind's boldest missteps." Nothing to make you feel better about yourself than to read about how badly the other guy screwed up, eh? Anyway, Failure's Julia M. Klein names author Louis L'Amour as one of these missteppers in the mag's arts & entertainment section, evidently justifying the honor because one-third of his sales have happened after his death.
I think we should figure out just where Louis L'Amour screwed up so that we don't make the same mistake. Of course the only good writer is a dead writer, but while he was alive, Louis was mainly a working writer. That rules out him being an unemployed deadbeat. Bummer. He was a self-educated dude, and the lack of a pedigree does make him seem a bit scruffy. We all know how stupid people who don't attend college are. His attitude, geez, what can I say. He thought of himself as just another guy telling stories around the campfire. Does that not shriek loser?
Louis L'Amour's existence is easily classified as a total waste. First, ignore the fact that he published 130 books, and countless articles, short stories and myriad other works. Editors must have felt bad for the poor slob. Don't ask people to name a classic Western author, because they'll probably say Louis L'Amour. I'm sure it's out of sheer pity. Some cowboy movies were made based on his books -- thirty of them? -- which obviously underlines what a big ZERO he was. Maybe. Somehow. Give me a minute here.
All right, I can't think of a reason off the top of my head. But Louis L'Amour had to know how utterly worthless a human being he was because he missed out on all that lovely cash. After all, cash IS cash. I bet you that when he died of cancer at age 80, he thought, "Gee, I wish I'd held out for some bigger advance checks."
This pathetic man lived his life doing what he loved, and he left behind an embarrassingly large body of work in print, and Hollywood loved him, but he didn't make billions, so he sucked. If you aren't in this gig for the Almighty Buck pile, babe, you're nobody and nothing. Everybody knows that.
But thank you, Failure magazine, for reminding us not to follow the same sorry sadass career dirt road as Louis L'Amour. Instead we'll devote ourselves to becoming more like the brilliant chick who wrote this valuable cautionary tale.
Uh, what was her name again?