The Writer as Clown

For over twenty years I gave my all to writing novels in my spare time. Two novels given with heart and soul, what I intended to be my gift to the world, the meaning of life borne from the crashing sea of life. All of it was joy. On the other hand: Studying writing, I paid little attention to thoughts or articles about marketing. Now, wonder of wonders, the hard won novels finally finished, comes marketing day to try and sell the fruits of my creation. But this isn't wonderful. In fact it's awful.
Over the years my mind fogged over when I read writing manuals that included pieces on marketing: Practice speaking in front of a mirror; cultivate editors and agents for friends; publish short stories in literary magazines. I did get a story published in CrossTIME VII (2008). But I do not want these other things. I find myself whispering, "Oh, God." What I want is writing, not speaking.
I come from a family of quiet men. I had a great uncle, a farmer, who seldom spoke. I became a writer because I have virtually no small talk within me. My brain is fortunately (or unfortunately) wired for big ideas, big concepts, big philosophy. Why are we alive? Why do we die? Why war? Why greed? Why need? I also love geology and any sentence that begins with "Plate tectonics is..."
I wrote two big novels creating action and adventure that were drama platforms for explorations of these big ideas, of the deep mysteries of life: The Goldfinder and The Black Butterfly Woman.
Now I'm supposed to get on a stage and bounce around like Bo Jangles? Like a street barker selling elixirs in a bottle--I am supposed to conjure an audience from thin air.
It is not enough that I have done that impossible thing, creating worlds and living beings with only the force of my mind. It does not feel right but now I must become a lively clown to get my notice for the children of my mind. I do not know.
I think I will not become a clown.