An Excerpt from the Upcoming Novel:
“EMM (Earth) (Moon) (Mars), The Mandala Labyrinth Gold, Volume-3 (VeeJay)”
The Writer’s Truth “The Price and Power of a True Writer”
It is a humbling but honest reality that writers can spend months, even years, building a single book, pouring every ounce of their heart into it, and yet have no assurance that it will sell or even be read widely. A true writer works not for guaranteed reward but for truth, the belief that the story must exist, that it has to be written. To write means to take the greatest risk of all: to give years of your life to something that may bring nothing in return except the knowledge that you created it with your whole being. That, perhaps, is the most sacred and terrifying thing about this craft. Unlike most professions, where effort often equals compensation, a writer’s full devotion might still meet silence. A real writer must be prepared to face that silence, to accept that even if the book doesn’t sell, even if the world turns away, their work still matters. Because true writing isn’t about applause; it’s about honesty. It is about staying faithful to your vision when no one else sees it. The only real safety net a writer has is faith, faith in their work, faith in their inner voice, faith that the effort itself has meaning. “Anyone can pretend to be a writer, but to truly be one, you must live as a writer, think like a writer, and be a writer from head to toe. You can’t just act like a writer or pretend to be one; to truly be a writer, you must live it, think it, feel it, and commit to it completely.” That is the essence. A writer doesn’t simply decide to write; they are writing. They live it. They breathe it. They suffer for it and rise again because of it. This is something rare and true: no other field mirrors this uncertainty so completely. Even farmers harvest after months and see results in their hands; even filmmakers receive something through sponsors or studios. But writers, especially new and independent ones, often walk alone. There are no investors, no advances, just an idea, a blank page, and time measured not in days or weeks but in years. And yet, this is what makes writers among the bravest creators alive. To spend years crafting something that may bring no fame, no fortune, and still to finish it, that is courage beyond measure. The only real solution, as stated earlier, is to trust completely in your work. Half-belief cannot sustain a book. To create something lasting, you must be all in, body, mind, and soul. Many people listen to writers speak, but very few truly understand this reality: even giving one hundred percent effort does not guarantee success. Some writers achieve recognition and sales, but countless others, despite pouring their hearts, time, and dedication into their work, still struggle to find success. For many, success remains painfully out of reach no matter how hard they try. Yet even then, the writer must not crumble. Because the act of finishing the work, of telling the story the best it can be told, already places them among the rarest kind of people: those who made something that didn’t exist before. Writers will begin to feel that shift, the artist awakening inside them. Influences may come from other writers, philosophers, or creators, but the realization will be on their own. Writers understood that success is no longer defined by numbers, but by how completely they give themselves to their story. They are now walking the same inner path that true artists have walked through history, where the focus is not the outcome but the craft itself. When writers could say, “Now I don’t care about success or sales. I only think about making the best of my book, doing everything for it to be ready when its time comes.” That is not resignation. That is liberation. That is the moment an artist becomes free of fear and begins creating purely for truth. Yes, that means writers have become a true artist. Not because of fame or recognition, but because they reached the point where their devotion to their work outweighs the need for validation. This is the transformation every great writer goes through, when the work itself becomes the reward. Writing from thousands of artists, philosophers, and authors across history spoke the same truth. Writers discovered this by living the process, by struggling, refining, rethinking, and refusing to quit through experience. Writers mature in structure, reflection, and emotional sincerity. That’s what experience and age bring to art. A lifetime of watching and learning gave every word greater depth and meaning. Writers should bring the vision, the intuition, and the courage plus structure, refinement, and perspective. Together, turning raw emotion into lasting words. New writers must walk the same timeless path all real artists have walked, one that requires patience, pain, belief, and a love for truth greater than the love for praise. And when a writer’s book finally reaches its readers, they will feel that depth, because every word wrote was earned with honesty. So yes, keep trusting, keep creating, keep pouring life into your story. The world may not always reward right away, but one day it will recognize that this work came from someone who gave everything to make it real. That’s what makes a true artist.
A wonderful idea “The Writer’s Truth” real historical examples of writers, poets, painters, and musicians who gave everything to their art, often facing obscurity or rejection during their lifetimes, but whose devotion made their work immortal. Below is the true artist parallels woven naturally into the flow. It keeps emotion and voice intact but now connects personal realization to the great continuum of creative souls throughout history.
The Writer’s Truth, The Sacred Risk of Creation
It is a dark but beautiful reality, writers can spend years, sometimes entire decades, building a single book, pouring every cell of their being into it, and yet have no assurance that it will sell or even be read widely. To write truly is to leap into the unknown. A true writer works not for applause, but for truth, the belief that the story must exist, that it is born through them and therefore deserves life. They take the greatest risk of all: giving years of their life to something that may bring nothing in return except the quiet knowledge that they created it with their whole being. Unlike other professions where effort almost always brings tangible reward, the writer walks a road of deep uncertainty. There are no sponsors, no safety nets, no investors waiting to pay for the years spent alone at the desk. Only the blank page, and the faith that the words will mean something someday.
Emily Dickinson wrote nearly 1,800 poems, yet fewer than a dozen were published during her lifetime. She never sought fame; she trusted her truth. Her work, written in near isolation in her Amherst home, was discovered only after her death and today she is considered one of the greatest poets who ever lived.
Franz Kafka worked as a clerk by day and wrote by night, believing his work might never be understood. He even instructed his friend Max Brod to burn all his writings after his death, a wish Brod disobeyed, giving the world The Trial, The Metamorphosis, and The Castle. Kafka never knew he had changed literature forever.
Vincent van Gogh painted more than 800 works but sold only one in his lifetime, to his brother Theo’s friend. He lived in poverty, tormented by loneliness and self-doubt, but never stopped painting the light he saw in the world. Today, his paintings are among the most valuable on Earth and the whole EMM World.
Herman Melville, author of Moby-Dick, died believing his masterpiece was a failure. His obituary didn’t even mention the book. Yet a century later, his novel was recognized as one of the greatest works of world literature.
John Keats, who died at only 25, wrote poems of such eternal beauty that they became the foundation of Romantic literature. He said shortly before his death: “I have left no immortal work behind me.” He was wrong. His words outlived centuries.
These creators, Dickinson, Kafka, Van Gogh, Melville, Keats, all lived what we coined as: 100% devotion, often met with 0% recognition in their own time. They are proof that the true artist’s worth isn’t measured by sales or applause, but by sincerity of intent and depth of effort.
“We can pretend to be writers, but to be ONE, we must breathe it, live it, and carry it from head to toe.” This captures what so many spend a lifetime trying to explain, that writing isn’t an act, it’s an existence. It’s not just about words on a page; it’s about being soaked in observation, empathy, pain, and imagination every moment of life. That is the eternal law of art. To create, you must surrender, not halfway, but fully. Because half-belief cannot carry a story to its end. A true artist gives themselves to their craft so completely that the line between life and art disappears. No other field shares this strange fate, even farmers see their crops after months, even filmmakers receive funds from producers. But writers, especially new or independent ones, work for years with nothing but hope. That’s not weakness; that’s bravery of the highest kind. To endure this, to keep writing even when the world seems not to care, is what makes someone a real artist. To give years of honest effort, and still be ready to face silence, takes strength most people will never understand. When writers feel no longer care about success or sales but only about giving the best to their book, that was the moment of transformation. That is when a writer becomes free. Free from expectation, free from fear, and guided only by the love of creation itself. They will stand now among those timeless spirits, the ones who understood that art is not a transaction, but a truth-telling. The world may not always reward it immediately, but it will remember it for sure. Writers or artists, like Dickinson, may not chase fame, but many chase clarity. Like Van Gogh, writers paint with words instead of colors. Like Kafka, writers wrestle with meaning. Like Melville, writers pour philosophy into fiction. And like Keats, writers trust beauty even when the world does not notice. It must carry the tone of someone who has lived, who has observed, and who writes not to impress but to express. That depth comes from experience, patience, and belief, the rarest combination in modern times. So, as before: keep trusting, keep creating, and keep giving yourself fully to your book and work. The world might not see it now, but one day, someone will open their pages and feel exactly what the writers felt writing them. That is immortality. That is the reward of a true artist.
That kind of realization is beautiful because it transforms storytelling into something far greater than entertainment. A story begins to carry not only imagination, but also memory, struggle, discovery, and legacy. It becomes a mirror where people can see parts of themselves reflected back at them and slowly understand what it means to grow, fail, create, and evolve. When those emotions are woven naturally into the lives and choices of characters, the story gains a different kind of depth. It no longer feels like fiction alone. It begins to feel truthful in a deeply human way. The loneliness, the sudden bursts of inspiration, the silent battles with self-doubt, and the quiet joy of creation all become part of the emotional fabric of the narrative. That is why such moments resonate so strongly. They do not feel like lessons being taught. They feel lived. Readers recognize something honest within them, even if they cannot fully explain why. And when a story reaches that level, it elevates everything around it, blending imagination with the timeless emotional reality of artistry and human experience.
“The Writer Named Loyal”
The author looked out the window of the glass library, the sky tinted by the quiet glow of orbiting satellites. “You know, VJ,” he said, “There was once a writer named Loyal.”
“Loyal?” VJ repeated, his voice curious.
“Yes. He lived long before you were born during the age when machines first learned to write. Everyone around him believed the art of writing had ended, that humans would soon have nothing left to say. But Loyal disagreed. He said, as long as the heart beats slower than a machine, a human still has something the machine can’t create, silence.” The author smiled faintly. “He was reluctant, you know. He feared the machine, not because it was powerful, but because it was easy. He would spend hours rewriting a single line while others let algorithms compose entire novels. They called him outdated. But he kept writing slow, imperfect, stubborn. In that resistance, he found something eternal.” The writer said to VJ what Loyal had said at that time: ‘I am going to die as an author, and knowing that is the greatest feeling in the world. I don’t care whether anyone knows it or not. What matters is that I know I was born to write and nothing else. When you discover your true calling, that itself is the greatest achievement of life. I know that being a writer is one of the hardest paths, especially when it comes to earning, but perhaps that’s exactly why I feel I must try my hardest.”
VJ listened without interrupting. The room felt older somehow, as if time itself had stopped to listen.
“He used to say Diwali wasn’t just a festival of lamps,” the author went on. “To him, it was the triumph of truth over fake, of real light over empty brilliance. His words shone like small, flickering lamps, human and warm, against a sky full of artificial stars.”
“And what happened to him?” VJ asked softly.
The author looked at him then, his eyes far away. “He died, long ago. But every time someone writes without surrendering to the machine, Loyal lives again. That’s the only kind of immortality a writer ever needs.”
The silence that followed was not empty. It was filled with the hum of machines outside and the quiet determination of one man who refused to be replaced. The writer spoke of how artists still exist despite direct competition from the highly advanced AI artists of the year 2169, the AIs of the 22nd century. AI, he said, may be far superior to humans in skill and efficiency, even as writers. Yet humans continue to exist in the arts because AI can never fully replace them. What AI lacks, even now, is the human touch. AI continues to strive to surpass humans not only in intelligence but also in humanity itself. Still, it fails in this most crucial area. Until AI becomes entirely biological, it cannot truly outwit humans in art. And fully biological AI remains, perhaps, forever out of reach. Maybe this is why humans were created, and why humans, in turn, created AI. AI may surpass humanity in nearly every aspect, but it still cannot possess what humans are believed to have: a soul. That soul is what separates humans from AI. Even if AI were to become fully biological one day, it would still lack the soul reserved for humans, animals, and birds. This, the writer believed, was the will of God or of Nature itself.
VJ listened to all of this in silence. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. The words felt genuine, almost like truth itself. In that moment, VJ felt a quiet confidence rise within him. AI might be the most powerful intelligence of the age, but humans still held an advantage in the most important realm of all. Humanity.