I am only 26. Perhaps I shall succeed in doing something.
A 26-year-old writer says in a letter: “Thank you for the flattering things you say about my work and for having published my story so soon.”
He goes on to say all his friends and relatives take a condescending attitude to his writing and never cease to tell him not to give up his day job for the sake of scribbling.
Among his friends he has a dozen or two writers but not a single one reads his writing or considers him an artist.
“I soon got used to looking down upon my work, and so it has gone from bad to worse,” he says.
“I rest all my hopes on the future. I am only 26. Perhaps I shall succeed in doing something, though time flies fast.”
Pretty soon Anton Chekhov is a celebrity writer, and in another letter he says: “It is not much fun to be a great writer. To begin with, it’s a dreary life. Work from morning till night and not much to show for it. Money is as scarce as cat’s tears.”
He also says: “The result of this growth of my literary rep…