This seems sort of crucial, in a silly way: Should I "curtail my precious mediocrity," or embrace it? I tend to think the latter. It might lead to more fun and waterslides and satisfaction and even something like freedom. Just kind of speculating here, going off some things I've read lately. I mean like I'm kind of thinking do your "other stuff" well, with strength and from genuine motivations, and do your "writing" well enough, as it follows from your other stuff, with honesty and humility and a distinct lack of artifice. As some guy, incidentally who isn't technically qualified for his job either, said on lithub.com: > This is something I’ve come to learn about writers: They’re the ones who write. When aspiring writers ask me how to make a book—and I know, Alan, you’re not asking, but there’s an implicit cry for help in writing a stranger to demand that he read your work simply because he’s a writer—I say, “First, you write one.” Incidentally also, that guy doesn't appear to have the foggiest idea that he's pouring eloquence into the mouth of a psychotic person, and that that makes him look a little bit dumb and self-absorbed. Just goes to show ya, no one's perfect, and in the imperfect we can find mentorship as well as indications of where we can mentor, maybe. I like this part too: > I think that’s how most writers—my friends, at least—read. We’re not scholars, nor are we accountable to any “profession.” We don’t read what we “should” or even, necessarily, what’s “best.” We read by hope and hint and free association, because publishing isn’t a meritocracy, it’s a vast, often unjust and always clumsy empire of too many words, including our own. The writers I know survive through the friendship of fellow travelers; first, we read our friends. (2016)