I read Time only while I wait at my dentist’s, and it is not often that I wait there for long. I rarely find anything of interest in the weekly newspaper, but the current issue has an article about self-publishing that has attracted my attention. “It’s easier than ever for authors to publish themselves,” the story goes, “but tougher by the day to find fame.” Ouch. Apparently, it is an article of faith in the self-publishing movement that writing fiction can bring you a fortune. “For all the aspirational rhetoric,” the article concludes, “the chances of succeeding at self-publishing are as daunting as those of being discovered in the slush pile.” Damn. As the dentist was cleaning my teeth, I reflected on the article. Although it hurt from time to time, I felt kind of jubilant on account of the conclusions. Luckily for me, I want neither fame nor fortune. In addition, writing fiction does not attract me at all. In fact, the very idea revolts me. As for self-publishing, it strikes me as perfectly okay as long as it is only for fun. Forget about fame and fortune, and you are fine. With my magnum opus on the World Wide Web for free, I should know.