A literary-minded witch gives you a choice: with a flick of the wand, you can become either an obscure novelist whose work will be admired and studied by a select few for decades, or a popular paperback author whose books give pleasure to millions. Which do you choose?
Obscure is me.
Yes, a good number of the books I bought are popular ones but upon closer examination of my shelves and it would be obvious: the whole line of books is dotted with lesser-known titles by little known authors.
Why is that?
Through my years of reading, I have come to enjoy the company only a handful of people are familiar with. I have listened to voices that are drowned in the sea of crowds. I have recognized the peculiarity that I found in their words is also within my soul. The oddness from the cover to page calls out my whole being.
It’s easy to pick out stories that masses would love. Not so with the rest; there are individuals out there, keeping their ears and eyes open, waiting for tales that go beyond the common and have household names. Those are my people—because that is who I am. As the reader, so the writer: I am the obscure.