a desire as pretentious as it was certain: to become a novelist. They warned me: You might never succeed in literature. You might end up bitter! disappointed! marginalized! a failure! Yes, it’s possible, I said. The relentless “they” insisted: Maybe you’ll end up suicidal! Yes, maybe, but life, I added, is nothing more than a series of “maybes,” a slip of a word and yet it can carry so much.
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