That much was clear to me as I began looking for magazines to submit my stories to. I'd found a support group of writers who were similarly embroiled in struggles for recognition, and I had a backlog of thirty stories, ten of them moderately publishable. I was ready to take those baby steps, or so I thought.

To be able to avoid a day job, I had to make money somehow. I had to write and publish my stories. The two were inextricable, according to every article I'd read, even though, by default, all those articles were by published writers.

I had my integrity, my standards of writing and publication. No, I wouldn't self-publish, nor would I sell out to the commercial crowd. My limits were clearly defined. I was making progress, moving up in the world. Soon I would progress beyond all those hopeful unpublished masses, propelled by the credit attached to my name.

Two months later, I had only one or two more stories, each fewer than five hundred words. But I had submitted! I was taking the toughest step, putting myself on the line, and waiting to have my darlings crushed under the iron fist of the editors who control all literature. Submitting work validated me. I was treated professionally when I was rejected, recognized as someone who followed guidelines, adhered to standards, and wrote. Of course, I didn't write. I didn't have to.

In discussing up and coming lit mags with a writer friend of mine, I asked why he never submitted any of his own work. I thought it was excellent, and deserved to be shared with the general public (or whatever public reads literature anymore).

He said he would rather write than submit. The idea was ridiculous to me. A balance was necessary. Every great thinker agreed that balance was the key to success, and writing was by no means an exception. My hypocritical imbalance didn't warrant comment at the time. I argued, persuaded, dissuaded, and did my best to convince him that the rewards of publication were his to reap, if only he would do a little work.