I was complaining to my son Jake about how many mediocre books are not merely published, but land at the top of The New York Times Bestseller list or get to wear a Pulitzer Prize sticker on their front covers. As a fellow writer and a person to whom I gave birth, I thought he’d sympathize with my whining, but instead he pointed out that artists of every persuasion cannot control fate’s fickle hand. The most extraordinarily innovative musician might, at this very moment, be jamming with some crack heads under a highway overpass in Austin, never to find a record label; the most brilliant artist might be in a remote African village, rendering a mud painting on the wall of his hut, which will soon be burned to the ground in a military coup.

I suspect Jake is right. Just because you’re genuinely good at whatever you do doesn’t mean you rise to the top, much less catch a break. The luck of the draw almost always trumps talent, and while it might not seem fair, I have to acknowledge that sometimes, in some things, luck has definitely worked in my favor. And maybe, just maybe, the only thing more tragic than the artist who ceaselessly labors on her/his craft, only to die in obscurity, is the artist who throws in the towel because obscurity feels like an indictment, as opposed to the crap shoot it actually is.

It makes me think that instead of wondering if I have what it takes to be a successful writer, I should be hoping I possess what it takes to be an unsuccessful one.