Ever since I was 12, I saw myself as a writer. Not just any writer, but one destined for fame, fortune and awards.  

Well, those sure were impressive dreams. Sadly, my reality hasn’t quite measured up. 

It turns out I like my reality better than those dreams. When I refresh the statistics on my Amazon dashboard, I get excited every time I sell a book. So, this morning when I saw this: 

It made me happy.  

Some days I don’t sell any. Some days I only sell one. Others, I sell a few. Recently I refreshed and the number jumped from 1 to 13! I literally couldn’t believe my eyes. I was so excited. 

Forty-seven cents is not drop the mic money, obviously. I intentionally left the price point low. My goal is not the fortune of profit, but the profit that I hope my readers take from the wisdom of Tao of Thoreau. The thought that people I don’t know are reading my book is so much better than my fantasies of fame. These are real people, and real readers. Somehow, that seems bigger than my gigantic imaginings.