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.

Dear book,

How are you today? Are you well? Are you loved? I’ve been thinking about you.

Love,

Me.

Or,

Dear book,

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.

Love,

Me.

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.

Love,

Me.


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