Okay, I understand: people in your home town see you in the flesh and conclude you can’t be of any importance. It’s hard to impress people who know you.
My books used to occupy a nice place on the shelves at my local library. But since the arrival of a new library director, my books have been banished to a “Local Authors” ghetto in the most remote region of the building, along with Mrs. Gesundheit’s genealogical researches and Grandpa Fongo’s reflections on the best local parade of 1956. One more step, and these books would be under the floorboards.
When I asked the new library director to please restore my books to their former place, she looked at me quizzically, the way Godzilla looks at a power plant before he kicks it to smithereens, and said, “Well, you are self-published, aren’t you?” Like any Local Author couldn’t possibly be good enough to be paid for his work.
For the sake of those among you who do publish your own writing, I will limit the description of my reply to the word “no.”
Anyhow, I looked again today and my books are still in the Local Authors ghetto where no one in this town will ever discover them and read them.
You just can’t make it in your own home town.