What if I actually wrote a new novel that didn't exist?

I mean, what if, after all this—my rattling on about it, sending out query letters to editors and publishers, blogging about it on myspace, creating a website—what if, after all this, it were all just some elaborate hoax, some kind of extensive prank or fantasy? A delusion I nurtured in my own wormy brain to give my life meaning?

What if I were to go to my big manuscript box—right fucking now—flip the lid, peer inside, only to find 546 double-spaced pages of me going:

“Lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala
lalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala....”

“Permanent Obscurity” ... a very suspicious-sounding title.... A projection of my own deepest fears, perhaps?

“Oh, yes, he has a 'Permanent Obscurity Complex,'” white coats will be saying years from now, after my condition has been dully diagnosed, written up in medical journals, and appropriated by the psychiatric community. “Yes, yes ... that's very common among artists ... or 'would-be artists' I should say, heh-heh...very sad. Oh, very sad indeed....”

What is this smiley face trying to hide?