Some days, I wonder why I write stories. Is it to get published? Yep. Can’t deny that one. Is it to be read and heard, and maybe loved? Oh, yes. But why does it make me ache if I don’t?
We all have our natural inclinations, but it doesn’t have to be the whole of us.
I value my privacy, but there’s nothing to hide. There’s not a single book I’m ashamed to have read. Not even the ones I regret reading (because I could have spent the time reading something better). A book’s a book.