I'll be honest. I want to outlive every writer I know. When a writer dies I make a fist and whisper, one more down. Harsh? Perhaps. Writing is very competitive. I must keep publishing, must create. If I come across a dead writer's book on a shelf, I will bring it to the store owner and point out how pointless it is to stock books from deceased authors who can no longer do book signings, as opposed to me, living and breathing and ready to market the crap out of my work.
And what does it mean to prosper? Mother Teresa prospered spiritually by living among lepers. Donald Trump buys buildings, Hugh Hefner seduces women, grandparents observe extended family around holidays. The guy working the taco truck pulls in a small fortune.
The concept of prospering is so amorphous.
Meanwhile, I wait for Harper Lee to croak.
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