If America doesn't understand your art, France might.
Mark SaFranko labored in obscurity for years. He wrote songs, plays, novels. He supported himself with a series of shitty, thankless jobs that kept the creditors at bay long enough for him to write a bit more. His youth passed to middle age like this.
I started writing, and all the while, no matter where I was and what my circumstances, I took notes and wrote. Novel after novel, song after song, story after story, play after play. It...