My novel sits with an agent now, awaiting judgment. I think about it often, and in my spare time compose little poem-like notes and letters to it. This is the second one, and doing this has proven to be far more useful than checking e-mail compulsively every ten minutes.

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Dear book,

I am that proverbial mama bird, nudging you from the nest time and time again.

Let me be, you say, as I send you out into the world again.

Go, I say.

I turn away before I can see you take flight. The sight of you out there is too painful. I feel exposed, raw. I want to curl up into a tight ball and cover my ears with my hands, like a child.

There will be bullies out there, and judgments. There will be kindness, too.

Every morning I stand and scan the horizon, eyes shielded, but there's no sight of you, not yet.

Where are you?

I believe in you.

I may not have told you this enough.

Come back when you are ready and I'll take you in again, fold you back into my arms, shield you from the world.

I believe in you.

I may not have told you this enough.