Where is my art?

I'm being honest, there are not many writers in Western history that I consider peers, in so far as story development goes. I am told that my forte is complexity in familial relationships--epics really--so I'm homeresque in that sense. It is a true story, that I am telling you, that high ranking members of the literatti cognoscenti consider my potential homeresque. On the one hand, what does that really mean today? But on the other hand it is humbling. My current works, studying African American males, are now running into over a thousand pages, so by the time I blossom with them, we're talking massive volume, probably five to ten thousand pages, of stream of consciousness writing leading to appreciably developed characters for whatever story (novel, play etc) comes out of it. I don't take my gifts for granted. At any given time I can bombard anyone with five thousand pages of high quality and very witty writing, so I believe what they say about my potential. I only have to reconcile living on earth and having the talent I do but not being famous, which I will fight against with every fibre of being. Why bear the burden of fame if I already get the perks? Fame is the very psychosis I don't want. Ask the famous.