Pathway Unknown; I Like It That Way

Today I learnt the draft that I handed over to a fellow struggling writer, we both failed NaNoWriMo last November, was not only enjoyed, but shared with a roommate. I don't know what to do; I don't know what to do! The dream of seeing my name on the front of a novel in the corner bookstore was never for a book like this, YA fiction. I want to write The Great American Novel like Steinbeck or Faulkner or Hurston.
On the other hand, though I check BooksWeek every Sunday when I'm home (actually, we buy the Sunday paper during our Saturday runs into town) and check out the Absurdist and/or literary works featured there, I have to admit that YA romantic fiction is the brain-rotting candy of my off-days when I'm in sweats and the stupor of withdrawal. It's why I never left the house over the semester break. And, in my book's defense, my mother told me it was a peculiarly well-written predictable novel, so I guess that counts for something.
My other attempts have been post-apocalyptic fantasy, modern (but not hard-boiled) detective fiction, and a YA thriller involving pyro-telekinesis. So basically, I have no class as a writer. Maybe I shall separate my real personality from my mass-market fiction one and go by Noël Ines. Maybe I should publish Plead in serial form, like in another blog.
I have no idea where my life is going – the Foreign Service, the bestseller's list, a district attorney's office, an eternity in academia, a cardboard box in Capitola, the possibilities are too endless to worry about. I thank God in heaven that I have possibilities. I thank my parents for not believing that they have all the answers (or the money) for me, unlike a good friend I talked to yesterday. If I screw up my life, at least I will be secure in knowing that I chose to screw it up.
And if you ever see a trashy book with Noël Ines on the cover, that's me.