Hemingway discovered Fitzgerald, who will discover me?

So, I'm working on my second book. I like it. It's good, if i do say so myself. Anyway, that led me to do a lot of thinking about my writing. I just started this blog, I don't have any type of fan base or anything close to that. It made me question why I'm still writing. Why am I writing something that is in risk of possibly never being read by any type of sort of audience? Why?

A good question. A sad question. A REAL question.

The answer is, why the fuck not? Why has anyone, EVER, done anything?

Honestly, I think the answer should be; "because they fucking can!"

I know I'm good at what I do, even though (believe me) I have my moments of crippling doubt.
Shit.. as much as I would LOVE to be the next Hemingway, I know that is impossible. Honestly, I know that and you do too and it's okay. Want to know why? BECAUSE HEMINGWAY IS DEAD AND FUCKING BURIED.

Way I see it is, I can either live to be better or worse than him. If I get lucky, both.
As far as my first book goes, I thought it was ready for publishing. I still, secretly, know it is. But maybe, just maybe it could do with some more editing, maybe another 20 thousand words. Bring the total count up to 80k. Maybe then these lovely suits down at the publishers office will give me a contract.

By God, I swear this is all I want. Give me a contract and I will give you the best stories!

Let a writer, write without the constant plague of a day job. God knows how hard it is to keep one.

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past" F. Scott Fitzgerald , The Great Gatsby

That book was barely over 50 thousand words and it became fucking gold. Also, back then we had publishers who cared about talent, and prose and literature. Books are a business now, and that is the problem.

Maybe self publishing is the best option.

I got to go, the passion from this post is making my left arm hurt. Maybe if I die Death of a Poet will sell, huh.