Sisyphus, Thy Name is Flip (Not: My Name is Flip And I Have Syphilis.)

Forever, Sisyphus was cursed to push a rock up a hill. He would endlessly toil and struggle to get it up. Reach the crest and he would achieve success. If only. But his destiny was one of utter futility. No matter how hard he tried, how clever he was, it was never enough. The boulder always escaped his grasp and rolled back down the hill. Defeat followed defeat.
     Today friends, I feel that way. Ever since I decided to be a writer, I have fought the good fight, slaving away, day after day to bring the public something good, something pure, the fruits of my labor. And... nothing. After all this time, I see no reward, there are no accolades, I continue to not be a commercial success. "How long, oh Lord? How long?" How much longer must I suffer for my art?
     Like Sisyphus, I strive to be the model of perseverance. I continue to soldier on, to press onwards, to pour myself into the breach. Oh, but it is hard. How does one keep motivated? Somehow, from where I don't know, I always summon the strength.  An inner wellspring of steely determination, forged in the fiery fires of tribulation and the opposition of anything beautiful and true. A dream that anything worth anything costs something. A promise that I made to myself when I decided that I would write, damn the cost. A promise that I made to myself back when I first started writing... almost two weeks ago.