“Shogo, I think you’re downrightly a dreamer and ingenuous man, indeed,” he looks at me squarely and counters, “I know it is a better way for authors to write from one’s heart, for sure; but if you can’t sell any books, you’re merely wasting your toil. I’ve met many writers in my life, and I think you’re an exceptional one; you are unique and have a rare talent. However, I tell you, it doesn’t matter if you’re a great writer or a shit writer. Think about it, for instance, you write a great book, a masterpiece, so to speak, but nobody notices your work. In fact, you have wonderful messages to convey to the world, but nobody can hear them due to your ignorance of marketing. On the other hands, if a shit writer publishes a mediocre work and knows how to market his book, people naturally notice his book and read it. At that juncture, he is better than you even if you’re a great writer and write a magnum opus. Are you following me? This is because, at least, he contributes some messages toward the world that can be heeded. If you can’t sell your book, you’re nothing, nonentity. I’m sorry to bring this to you, but this is the reality, and you’d better deal with it. It doesn’t matter if you’re a shit writer; the essential thing is whether you know how to market your book.”
“Of course, I can easily understand your conception; yet I truly believe you should write your book from your heart even if you can’t sell your book, other than writing hogwash for money. All in all, you think about rewards too much. Anyway, I must go, for I promised my friend to eat lunch together. See you around, Majid.”
With that, I walk out irritatingly.