I woke up today thinking about my book, which I often do.
It's been six months since I sent it off into the wild unknown. A long shot, I know. The silence has been yawning, dreadful.
Dream big! a writer-friend told me.
Be realistic, another said.
I picked the big dream. I can't look back now. Being realistic just didn't seem daring enough, good enough, right enough.
I think about my book often. In my head, I compose little letters to it.
How are you today? Are you well? Are you loved? I've been thinking about you.
I had a dream about you last night. It was big and exciting and I woke up feeling fluttery with anticipation. The day wore on, though, and the dream faded.
I think of you often. I miss you.
Sometimes, unbidden, terrible images rise up in my mind: you, ripped to strips, lying at the bottom of some shredder. Or, worse yet, you tossed into a recycling bin, pieces of you revealed and open, like naked limbs all akimbo in some dumpster.
Where are you, book? Why don't you write? I think about you often.
I hope you are well.