I’ve been reading Honoré de Balzac. What that man couldn’t do with the character of the miser! Also the suffering, self-sacrificing mother; the young man scheming to catch the attention of a rich married woman; the rich married women who can juggle a husband and a string of lovers while dancing with the king and wearing 10 layers of clothing; the hopeless pensioners and small-time grifters; and, amid all this 19th-century claptrap, the most cynical character I’ve ever met in literature. What a feast.

Balzac (he added the “de” because it was awesome) was probably the first writer to write about life as it was actually lived, which explains his knowledge of and fascination with money: francs, sous, livres, and gold gold gold. Balzac died in 1850, but whatever year he was writing in, in his head it was 1825. This makes him a tough sell for modern readers, given our lack of knowledge of post-Bonaparte France and our low tolerance for an author who loved to intrude with his thoughts on life, love, and morality. When I read his books I want to yell, “Good God, man, get on with your story,” but when I read them they own me.

Lately I’ve been wondering how I could replicate Balzac’s success. The obvious answer is “talent.” Other answers are discipline (Balzac wrote from 1am to 8am) and nutrition (he supposedly drank 50 cups of coffee a day). Zut alors, am I stuck? Like the typical Balzac hero, could I succeed instead by inheriting or marrying wealth?

A quick check with my wife gave me the answer to that question (no), along with the request that I do something about the bathroom fan. But, in my own way, I have been pursuing a shortcut to success. Over the years, I’ve applied for grants (“Here are your gold francs, Monsieur Bieler”), fellowships (you get the gold francs, but you also get an assignment, for example, throwing a ring into a volcano), and residencies.

The closest I’ve come to winning was the year that a judge wrote to me to say how much he enjoyed my writing. His voice was the minority voice on the panel. Also, a grant I missed went instead to a young Sherman Alexie, so I can’t get too upset about that one. I was recently informed that a writing residency I had applied for—and they really regret this, seeing as how I’m such a nice guy—was going instead to someone a little bit nicer. They hope I will think of them next year.

At that point I put down my 42nd cup of coffee and thought, What am I doing? These arts organizations and their donors are generous people. They genuinely want to do the most they can for the most deserving artists they can find.

Why would they want to help someone as old as me?

Balzac would see this clearly. (He would also, of course, burst into the narrative to deliver a lecture on the passage of time and the depths of denial as well as my endless self-regard.) If you had cash to dole out or a room you’re funding at a beach house or a ranch house or a townhouse, whom would you rather help? A writer who could have a 20- or 30-year career if she just caught a break, or an aging white male who has escaped into a comfortable retirement complete with a wife, two dogs, most of his hair, and a bathroom fan that makes too much noise?

No more applications for me.

Merci, Honoré.