I never wanted to be a celebrity writer. I wanted to be a good

“I never wanted to be a celebrity writer. I wanted to be a good writer. I’m still trying to be a good writer. That’s what gets me out of bed in the morning.” Thus spoke Thomas McGuane, novelist, essayist, and craftsman of the written word. In this confession, there is both humility and greatness. For here he draws a line between the fleeting shadows of fame and the eternal pursuit of excellence. His words remind us that true purpose lies not in the applause of others but in the relentless striving to refine one’s craft, to draw closer, day by day, to mastery.

The origin of this quote is found in McGuane’s career as a writer who resisted the temptations of literary celebrity. Though he gained recognition and his books reached wide audiences, he did not set his heart upon glitter or glory. Instead, he sought the more enduring treasure: to be good at his art, to live in pursuit of something pure, something inwardly satisfying. The celebrity fades with time; the work endures. Thus, his mornings are not driven by vanity, but by the sacred duty to shape words that live beyond him.

The ancients knew this wisdom well. In Athens, Socrates scorned the pursuit of public approval, reminding his disciples that the soul must be nourished by truth, not by reputation. In Rome, Marcus Aurelius wrote that glory is nothing but “the opinion of others,” fleeting and fragile. What matters, he said, is the daily practice of virtue. So too McGuane’s words echo this: celebrity is hollow, but goodness—whether in character or craft—has weight that endures through time.

History offers many who walked this path. Consider Vincent van Gogh, who sold almost no paintings in his lifetime, yet painted with ceaseless devotion. He did not rise each morning to chase celebrity, which never came; he rose to paint, to pursue the vision that burned within him. Or think of Emily Dickinson, who published little while she lived, yet wrote with fire and precision that later generations would revere. Both lived not for fame, but for truth in their art—and in so doing, they achieved greatness far beyond celebrity.

From this we learn a powerful lesson: the measure of a life should not be found in the echo of applause, but in the integrity of one’s striving. To rise each morning with purpose, to dedicate oneself to the long, patient work of improvement—this is the path of true fulfillment. McGuane’s words remind us that mastery is never complete, that to be “still trying” is itself the essence of being alive. For the pursuit of excellence is not a destination but a way of being.

Practical wisdom follows: in your own life, choose the path of substance over spectacle. Do not ask, “How can I be seen?” but rather, “How can I be better?” When you rise in the morning, let your drive not be the hope of recognition, but the joy of labor well done. Whether you are a writer, a teacher, a craftsman, or a parent, give yourself not to the applause of the moment but to the enduring excellence of the work itself. Seek the approval of your own conscience above the roar of the crowd.

Thus, let McGuane’s words be a guiding flame: “I wanted to be a good writer… That’s what gets me out of bed in the morning.” May we too rise with such purpose, not chasing shadows, but walking steadily toward the light of mastery. For those who live for celebrity vanish when the voices fall silent; but those who live for goodness leave behind a legacy that endures beyond the morning, beyond the years, into eternity itself.