A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-And-Thirty-One

 I work quite hard on my writing.  It is a daily labor, a constant effort.  It does not come easily: I often need to force myself to do the work.  It is work.  It is work I must do, though it often feels it will go unrewarded.  I do not know how to dismiss the need for remuneration, for evidence that my efforts have value and are not just vanity.  I work hard each day and I want to believe I will see a return for this dedication to my craft, but I know it is never certain.  That awareness does not change my want for some degree of success, for a sense that I am not just creating for myself, but that what I write has meaning and value for others.  Is there a way to be satisfied with doing the work, with knowing g my own effort, or will that always leave me wanting?  I do not even want to accept the possibility; it feels wrong to me to write without an audience, without being able to share my writing with an appreciative audience.  It is not only that I do not want to feel that my efforts might be a waste, or a desire to have success and accolades, but also the want to know what my work might mean to readers.  I keep going, writing and writing, revising, honing, refining.  I keep going, but the work itself can never be reward enough.