The dream was to write fiction for a living. And to do that, I believed I would need a little natural fame to become well-known. I dreamed of being an eternally best-selling author. I believed I could make it big, that my work would receive all the accolades. Yes, there would be negatives aplenty. But that was okay; I could handle that.
Then I foolishly mentioned to one of my uncles that I wanted to be a best-selling author. His response: You’ll never be famours because you don’t have the right facial features.
And the dream shattered before disintegrating.