Is it simply inevitable for all aspiring writers to fail their attempts at being “truly” original? How have the Greats become great? Why do the most passionate writers pour everything into their work, only to end up big, fat cliches every time? Everything that has ever been thought and will ever need to be thought has not all been written down yet, has it?

When I die and people remember me, I hope I’m thought of as revolutionary. Although, I’m not sure how to achieve that type of reputation. But maybe if I want it bad enough, I can make it happen. And Katie Couric will request an interview. And publishers will clammer greedily for a contract with me. And fan clubs will request my appearance for their monthly book meetings. And I’ll develop carpal tunnel syndrome from all those weekly book signings.

Life would be so good… If only, if only…

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