My most selfish dream, the one that's me and all me, is that people will be reading my novels a hundred years from now. I first knew I wanted that when I was a kid. Since then I've had this Jekyll and Hyde battle within myself over whether or not such a thing is possible.
Jekyll assures me I can achieve my goal if I work hard and don't let others dissuade me. Hyde laughs at the notion that a total nobody like me can even fathom such a thing.
When I read classics I wonder if the authors had any idea how long their writings would survive. I wonder if they stood in their front yards as children with all kinds of things tumbling about inside their heads, wishing they knew how to recreate those things on paper. I wonder if they felt oddly out of place no matter where they happened to be.
Jekyll reminds me of all the wonderful comments I've had from readers who have read my short stories and novel. Hyde snickers, because he knows they are just being nice to me. He points to my sales chart with a sanctimonious grin. The proof is in the pudding, he loves to say.
I'm working on my second novel, not because the first one has been a smashing success, but because I still have things tumbling about inside my head that I need to recreate on paper. When I stop writing I have nightmares. Hellish nightmares. More hellish than the ones I have when I do write.
Thank you for believing in me, Dr. Jekyll. Shut the hell up, Mr. Hyde.