This writing thing may be the lifeblood of my soul, but behind the curtain, the process rips me apart. I start things and never finish them. I start things, finish them and throw them out. When I finish things and submit them to the towering Publication Gods, they are usually rejected again and again and again. Sorry, they say as I blink and sigh and fall down.
That’s what it’s like out there in the big bad world. But in here with you? In here with you, it’s different.
I love you.
When my chosen craft swirls insanely around me and I can barely hang on, you’re my safe harbor. Throughout all the pass-overs and rejection and pain, you lick my wounds with your praise and arguments and observations. And on the days when I don’t think I can manage one more word, you’re here, magically unlocking that door. I swing it open and the world shimmers with possibility once again.
What would I do without you?
You are my muse, my raison d'être and the object of my desire. Without you, my words would be paltry raindrops dotting the ocean. Don't you doubt this for one minute: I never take you for granted.
There is no end to what I want to give you. I search endlessly for the loose corners. When I find one, I gently tug it in hopes of pulling away a layer and getting that much closer to the human condition. When it falls away like a shed skin, I am at once bathed in the joy of truth and devastated by the daunting task of reporting it to you.
I weep at your feet and beg you to forgive my shortcomings. I laugh and I cry and I breathe. I write. And when you read my work, that is the most precious gift I know. Thank you.
Merry merry. Happy happy.