Maybe it's just a 9/11 hangover, but it feels like more than that.
When the passengers were pressed against their seats as the planes were diving in, when the choking smoke and searing flames forced the trapped office workers to their knees, when the jumpers felt the wind rush past as they tumbled through the air, when the would-be rescuers heard the concrete walls crack and saw the ceiling come crashing down...
When each of the victims was at the moment of death, whether it came fast, slow or somewhere in between...
Did any of them say, "Damn, I wish I'd written that novel"?
When faced with The End, and given the chance to look back, or rather, forced by circumstances to look back over your life, over what you've done and what you've left undone, what you have and what you lack, the list of people you love (or don't) and the list of people who love you (or don't)... does this book matter?
"Damn, I wish I'd written that novel."
Will that novel, the one you just knew you were capable of writing, will that novel rank as one of the great regrets of your life? Or will it be one of the triumphs?
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