From the time I first picked up a pen (Yes, I’m that old.) and put words on paper, I envisioned myself as a best-selling, renowned author. I did vision boards in my head before there were ever vision boards.

I was too young, however, to comprehend the vagaries of the publishing world, to know that my very first piece of written work wasn’t likely to be published. And it wasn’t. So said several sci-fi magazines where I submitted stories.

A lot of writers would decide that was failure, and many didn’t write again.

Not I. I kept on writing. I kept on getting rejections. I wanted to tell stories, and I wasn’t going to let anything stop me.

About that time, I learned about “honing your craft.” I took classes and workshops, one-on-one instruction, was mentored by an English professor at my college. All to my benefit.

I still got rejections, but now I had the wherewithal to understand why.

Sixteen years ago, I retired from my full-time job, which was of such a nature that I rarely had time to write for myself. I continued taking workshops, joined a critique group, and put myself on a routine to write every day. My stories got accepted for several literary magazines and anthologies. A one-act play I wrote won a contest and was produced and staged. Several other stories placed well in contests. In 2017, my first novel was published and won an award.

So, growth and success?

Yes, but the fame and best-seller status still eluded me. I worked harder with that in mind. I tried all the marketing gimmicks designed for authors: Amazon ads, Facebook ads, Goodreads giveaways, contests, in-person and online book launches, and more.

My books sold but not in the amounts that would get me to best-seller status, which I still hung onto as a measure of success for my writing. All those ads, contests, giveaways, etc., cost money, and my books sales weren’t coming anywhere near covering those costs.

I’d failed, right?

Yes, that played in my head a while, and at one point, I almost, almost, decided what was the point in writing stuff no one bought.

Then, I remembered I wanted to write stories, stories that taught a history lesson but were page-turners. I’d published books; I’d sold books, but I’d forgotten that wasn’t really a measure of what I wanted to do from the time I was nine or ten years old.

I wanted to write.

I haven’t stopped. I have over 30 works of fiction published, books that get decent reviews and have hit the top ten on best-seller lists, one as high as number two. Twice.

My measure of growth and success goes beyond sales and publication. I’ve grown as a writer in that I’m a much better one, obviously, than that nine-year-old with dreams of fame. I’m a successful writer because I never let what I perceived as lack of growth and success stop me from telling stories.

My mistake, and I’m not the only writer to do this, is comparing myself to a high-level writer in my genre. In my case, that was John le Carre, the best-selling author of espionage fiction. Where I maybe could compete with him in imagination, I finally realized I didn’t have the experience in intelligence (i.e., espionage) that he did. That didn’t make me a bad writer, just one different from the world’s premiere espionage novelist. Le Carre’s stories are complex stories with flawed human beings. So are mine.

I’ve known a lot of writers who want to be the next Stephen King, the next Nora Roberts, the next famous, best-selling author. But, you can’t be them; they’re already them. You have to be yourself.

Once I accepted that, I’d grown as a writer, and I was a success.

Oh, you say, you lowered your standards.

Anyone who really knows me, knows that’s not in my makeup. I’m not a perfectionist, but I’m close. I don’t release a story until it’s ready. And I know it’s ready when, with all my workshops and critiques behind me, I can’t improve it. Someone else might, usually my editor, but I know when I’m done.

After all this blathering, the bottom line is you can’t measure your growth or success as a writer based on publication or sales alone. Those are fine to strive for, but you can’t let them define your writing success.

Write what you what, the stories inside you that you’ve always wanted to tell.