What if my passion is for naught?
If the novel I have attempted to perfect for so long results in an unopened dream on someone’s shelf, collecting dust upon yellowing pages?
What will happen if not a soul appreciates the words I have so zealously pondered?
Why are some books great and others tossed in the trash? When I walk through the bookstore and see the thousands of books that line the shelves I worry mine will be one of those that never feels the stroke of a hand within its pages.
Do other writers fear the same fate or am I the only one?