I am my younger self’s worst nightmare. I am proof that not all dreams come true -- even dreams you want so badly you can taste them.
I am proof that maybe they shouldn’t come true -- like that boy you wanted to marry so badly, but then you both grew up and you shudder at the thought of spending your life with him.
Years ago, I was driven to be a successful writer. I hoped my novel would go to auction, that my hard work, my very self, would be vindicated by a six-figure offer. Maybe then I’d be worth something.