There was a time, not too long ago, that I wanted to be a rap star. Not a REAL rap star, but a book rap star.
I believed that Shannon Dianne could usher the world into its newest stage: The Age of the Writer-Rapper. In this age, a writer would be a lot like a rapper:
1. Everyone would count down the days until my book was released.
2. People would theorize about what and who my book would subliminally be about.
3. Readers would wonder if I had any guest appearances--in the form of character cameos--in my book. (For example, would Kendrick Lamar perform a private concert for Leading Lady? Will Oprah happen to be at a bookstore when Leading Man walks in?)
4. Readers would assume that my book was part of the Illuminati book catalog.
5. Readers would read a line and wonder if I was secretly dissing a fellow author.
6. Readers would call my book a classic.
7. Readers would fight about whether or not I was G.O.A.T. (The Greatest of All Time.)
8. My die-hard readers would harass real people on social media if a villain in my book reminded the readers of real people.
And on, and on, the list goes.
Well, it's been five years and six books later, and I haven't turned into a rapper. That's the thing with high expectations; there are times you won't meet them. Rachel learns that in What If You're Over My Sh*t?. Her expectations are beyond her grasps, and she's miserable because of it.
But, can't she just readjust her goals? This is what her husband wonders, as they head towards the road to divorce. Hopefully, Rachel can before it's too late.
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