Last night in bed, I commented to my husband about a Twitter conversation between two authors I know who — without prompting from me, I swear — were discussing how much they enjoyed reading SOVRAN’S PAWN and how they looked forward to HERO’S END. Given my past few days, it was a much-needed shot of encouragement.
My darling husband said, “You’re a writer’s writer.”
I nodded, feeling a bit full of myself. I liked the sound of that.
“That’s kind of like a singer/songwriter,” he went on.
Knowing his preference for the singer/songwriters, I took it as a compliment.
“Other artists love and admire your work, but you’re doomed to obscurity because you’ll never have the commercial success other pop writers enjoy.”
I smacked him upside the head and rolled over.