The idea of being a novelist is really romantic, but it's kind of

The words of Richard Paul Evans—“The idea of being a novelist is really romantic, but it’s kind of the same as being president of the United States—it’s not gonna happen.”—are spoken with a mixture of irony, realism, and quiet wisdom. He reveals the paradox that surrounds so many of life’s great ambitions: they shimmer with romantic allure, inspiring countless dreamers, but the road to their fulfillment is so narrow, so steep, that few ever reach the summit. To call the dream of becoming a novelist akin to becoming a president is to expose both the grandeur of the vision and the near impossibility of its achievement.

The notion of being a novelist has long carried with it an aura of enchantment. To write is to shape worlds, to speak with the tongues of many, to capture in words the whispers of the human soul. The world imagines the novelist as one who lives among books, sipping inspiration as if it were wine, communing with the muses as easily as mortals breathe. This is the romantic vision Evans speaks of—the fantasy of the solitary artist, elevated above the common toils of life, immortalized by ink and story. Yet in truth, the path of the writer is not gilded; it is paved with rejection, obscurity, poverty, and doubt.

Evans tempers the dream with reality. To become a successful novelist, one whose books are read across nations, is as unlikely as ascending to the highest political throne. It requires talent, yes, but also fortune, timing, persistence, and sacrifice beyond what most can give. In this, his words echo the wisdom of the ancients: that destiny crowns only a few, and that the multitude who dream must face the fact that most will not arrive. This is not cruelty, but truth—a truth meant to prepare, not to discourage.

History gives us examples of this very struggle. Consider Emily Dickinson, whose poems, now regarded as among the greatest in English, lay largely unpublished in her lifetime. To her neighbors, she was not a literary giant but a reclusive woman, unknown beyond her town. Or think of Herman Melville, who penned Moby-Dick, a work now hailed as immortal, but who died in obscurity, his masterpiece nearly forgotten. Their lives remind us that the romantic dream of being a novelist often collides with reality—and yet, their persistence planted seeds that blossomed long after they were gone.

Yet Evans’s words are not meant to quench the fire of the dreamer. Rather, they urge us to see clearly: the romance of ambition must be coupled with resilience, humility, and courage. Dreams are not enough; they must be matched with labor and with the acceptance that the path is uncertain. Just as only one can hold the office of a nation’s president, only a few will sit among the immortal voices of literature. But to try, to labor, to give oneself to the work of creation—that in itself is noble, even if the crown is never worn.

The lesson is this: pursue your dream, but pursue it with eyes open. Do not be enchanted by the fantasy of what it means to be a writer, an artist, or a leader, without preparing for the burden, the hardship, and the long solitude it demands. The romantic vision may inspire you to begin, but only endurance and humility will carry you forward. Let not the unlikelihood of success deter you from creating, for creation itself is a form of victory, even if the world never crowns you.

Practically, this means embracing the act of writing, painting, building, or striving for its own sake. Write not only to be celebrated, but to speak truth. Dream not only of thrones, but of service. Measure your triumph not solely by fame or recognition, but by the devotion with which you give yourself to your calling. If greatness comes, receive it with gratitude; if it does not, let the labor itself be your reward.

Thus, Richard Paul Evans reminds us that romantic dreams are alluring, but they are not enough. Like the presidency, like the rare mantle of the novelist, such heights are reached by few. Yet every soul who dares to climb gains strength, wisdom, and dignity in the attempt. And this, perhaps, is the deeper triumph: not the crown itself, but the courage to pursue it.