Consider the possibility that the next Ernest Hemingway (or William Faulkner, or James Joyce, or Mark Twain) is somewhere writing novels right now, but no publisher will put out his books because he’s not commercial enough.
There may even be a Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart out there in the great American Heartland, composing symphonies on his Mac in his spare time, but because he’s not any good at requesting grants and his job at Wal-Mart doesn’t afford him much free time, no one will ever hear his music. And we’ll all be the poorer for it.
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