Ah, Jack Smith. As a child he was locked in the closet by his mother while she went out on the town or do whatever it is she would do. Jack probably spent many an hour escaping into his head at such times. A tendency that served his art making well, but one that assured that he didn't take care of himself very well and also probably compelled him to bite whatever hand may have been inclined to feed him- if any hands offered to feed him at all.
I think about Jack Smith as I go about trying to make a "career" out of illustrating bitter experience, dreams, fantasies, hallucinations, delusions, convictions etc. I mean, I sold ONE BOOK at the last convention a had a table at! With one, maybe, two more conventions coming up, what am I ultimately trying to accomplish? Reach "the people" and have a groundswell of support that propels my scribblings to undreamed of heights? Target the right "gatekeepers" and hope that they give my work an air of legitimacy through mass-media publishing and promotion?
I've settled on an ultimate career goal, dear reader. It is suitably quixotic, as befits my temperament, and for now, shall remain secret.