The publisher demanded I attend a 'networking' event. A room full of people desperate to be perceived as important, all talking and saying nothing. The only moment of truth came when a young novelist, trembling with what I mistook for fear, asked me to sign her book. It wasn't nervousness. It was pure, unadulterated dedication to the craft. She'd worn through the cover from re-reading. I signed it. The entire farce was almost worth it for that single, honest artifact of why any of us should bother putting words to paper in the first place.