I am, regretfully, unpublished.
I am not, however, unread.
The two are not mutually exclusive. Many people have read my work. In fact, you read it now.
Yet, I remain unfulfilled.
It may be unctuous to believe others, not interested in blogs and such, would wish to read my unpublished prose, yet I persevere, unwilling to give up.
And other unwitting accomplices provide praise and feedback of an uproarious nature to ensure I am uninterrupted in my pursuit of unequivocal praise and fandom.
They soothe my unalloyed fears of utter anonymity on the great halls and annals of unrealized potential.
They are a uniform front of family, friends and coworkers, willing to read unedited and unrevised manuscript printed on unbleached, recycled and unbound pages.
They uniformly provide uncensored and uninhibited feedback, though never of the unthinking and unstudied sort.
They unstick me, unstring me, and leave me unrestrained and unselfconscious as I rip, strip, edit, revise, reword and resubmit.
They are unreserved, undeserved and undeniable and I will never be unread as long as I have them in my lives.
And that, my friends, is enough.