Fame vs. Fortune

Immortality exacts a heavy price

Hey Friends,

Welcome to Field Research, the humor and satire newsletter written and produced by me, Amran Gowani.

I’m a mad scientist turned corporate mercenary turned semi-competent stay-at-home-dad and author. My debut novel Leverage — a propulsive, darkly hilarious Wall Street thriller — will be published by Atria Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, in Summer 2025.

The literati might call today’s piece “satirical auto-meta-fiction” — or something equally ludicrous. Hopefully it sparks some cringeworthy laughs.

Enjoy the show.

Neither will fix you.

Fame vs. Fortune

Everyone knows being a hella famous novelist is far more rewarding than being an obscenely wealthy capitalist.

Run-of-the-mill investment bankers waste their vapid lives on private jets, sex cruises, and paternity suits, while always well-adjusted authors pass their wage-less hours in dark rooms, doubting every keystroke, and in constant fear they’ll die alone, obscure, and unread.

This is why I quit my lucrative job with evil-financial-institution-which-shall-not-be-named and became a full-time writer.

What I didn’t expect, but quickly learned, is writing an entire book is much more difficult than snorting coke off a stripper’s navel.

It took me a decade to decide which POV to use for my story, then another to determine which verb tense worked best. Eventually, after twenty-two years, I completed my seventy-three-page masterpiece.

By the way, the story revolves around a depressed finance guy who quits his lucrative day job to become a full-time novelist. I’m astonished I came up with such a novel idea for my novel, too.

The real excitement began once the book was finished.

Over a three-year period I queried hundreds of literary agents, signed with a literary agent, figured out said literary agent was a scammer, won a fraud and defamation case, queried hundreds more literary agents, signed with a new literary agent, won an injunction, queried hundreds more literary agents, and finally signed with a third literary agent who I kidnapped and threatened to disappear unless they repped me.

A few years later an indie press in Topeka acquired my debut novel, Breaking Broke.

To be honest, I was shocked it took so long to sell the book, especially since I used to launder billions for war criminals with a few quick taps on my smartphone. But, once my dutiful literary agent was properly motivated — there was rope and a tank full of hammerheads, it was a real production — all my literary dreams came true.

As part of my contract, I received an advance Great Depression survivors would describe as adequate, which is being paid out in twenty-six tranches over seventeen years. Plus, if I get really lucky, my publisher might put some marketing dollars behind my book and help me earn out before I’m composted.

Assuming they’re not acquired and gutted by an evil private equity firm. Or acquired and forced to train AI algorithms for a cynical tech behemoth.

What most humbled me, however, was studying my publisher’s utterly surreal sales forecast and realizing that, one day, hundreds of people would hold my book, dozens might buy it, and maybe even three or four would read it.

Of course, as a former one-percenter accustomed to spending thousands of dollars per day on escorts and ecstasy, I’ve learned to accept the vagaries of the marketplace. And, as with my wife’s contempt, I don’t concern myself with variables beyond my control.

The one thing I do know is my literary accomplishment finally felt real when I created a fake Publishers Marketplace blurb using Dall-E and shared it on Instagram for my follower. I “liked” my post, then stared at the beautiful run-on sentence I wrote for hours and hours and hours until I thought: All my hard work is paying off.

Not financially.

Even the densest MBA graduate could figure out my career pivot was violently NPV negative. And my old finance colleagues have suggested — repeatedly — I wasted my prime earning years on a pointless, some might even say narcissistic pet project.

But this grossly capitalistic worldview diminishes my creatively destructive journey. I know there’s more to life than money, despite my wife’s, mom’s, dad’s, sister’s, older brother’s, younger brother’s, stepmom’s, stepdad’s, and best friend Doug’s persistent claims to the contrary.

Those corporate drones, with their stable incomes and retirement savings, have no idea what it takes to achieve a lofty yet arbitrary goal like securing a traditional book deal. They have no concept how it feels to be paid in prestige rather than fungible currency. Their solipsism would be laughable if it wasn’t so tragic.

Being simpletons, they also fail to realize that, as a soon-to-be-traditionally-published author, I’m now a global thought leader, too. And, as a global thought leader, I’m by definition always correct.

When my wife broke down during my agent search, admitted she and Doug had been having an affair for nine years, and told me she was taking their kids and our house, I never once lamented my newfound cuckoldom.

She knew I was destined for fictional fame and fortune and, as the pathetic founding partner of a vampiric venture capital firm, she rejected me to preempt her feelings of inadequacy.

And who could expect anything less from Doug’s petulant kids? Always saying hurtful things like: “You ruined our lives, asshole!” Or: “I wish you were dead.”

My novel sale proved I’m a once-in-a-generation talent — a man capable of molding Western culture with his mere words. They lashed out because they’ll never measure up to my artistic greatness, not because I bankrupted their childhood with some megalomaniacal midlife crisis. Still, I do feel a little bad. I’d give them a hug, but I’m not sure that’s appropriate anymore.

Sadly, ad hominem attacks also come from old college classmates and ancillary acquaintances. Cowards who used to complain about my boorish behavior and appalling lack of social intelligence ultimately revealed their true colors. I too would be terrified by my towering intellect and intimidated by my extraordinary achievements.

Sure, unlike the rest of those plebes, I had to sell my Range Rover, Maserati, and investment portfolio to fund my writing career. But no material possession can compare with the thrill I experience every single time I tell a total stranger I’m a bona fide author, and their local bookstore might stock my novel for a week. Possibly two.

Look, I don’t want to sugarcoat my rise to literary stardom. Becoming a novelist forced me to sacrifice everything. Literally. At the same time, I’ve never felt richer. Spiritually.

When I reflect on the past three decades, I can’t quite believe I seamlessly transitioned from history’s wealthiest industry to history’s worst-paying vocation.

I used to have a fat paycheck, a huge house, and regular sex partners. Now I have zero earthly possessions, crippling credit card debt, and the smug satisfaction of literary immortality.

Every day I ask myself if I’d make the same choice.

Of course, the answer is obvious.

Upcoming guest appearances

I’m conducting an interview with the Chicago Writers Association this morning, and a few weeks ago I participated on a publishing panel with several literary power brokers (I was the odd man out on multiple metrics).

Both appearances will be transcribed and published in written form. Once they’re live I’ll figure out the best way to distribute them via this channel. Stay tuned.