If my book is never published and never read, I can keep torturing myself by playing out ridiculous fantasies where:
a) It’s praised as “the voice of our generation,” “a cunning retelling of a classic love story gone awry,” and “San Francisco’s best tale since Tales of the City.”
OR (still in my head, that glorious beast):
b) It’s assessed as “crappy white girl drivel. Its author should be water boarded for adding to the piles of typewritten trash in which the world is already drowning.”