Dear Manuscript

Right now, it’s just you and I.

Right now, I’m enchanted by you. The plot feels organic, growing fresh and clear from the motivations of the characters, some of whom I know of old, and some of whom are new and interesting and whose very existence was a surprise. No one else has seen your storyline. No one else knows you the way I do, and I know so very little. I know I will discover more. A lot more.

Writing is not a struggle.

Yet.

There will be days. Days when I hate you, and want to stuff you in a box, and possibly burn the box and scatter the ashes – maybe in the four corners of the city I live in. Maybe in the four corners of the state. Days when I will want to deny your existence. Days when I might, maybe, admit you exist, but refuse to produce you.

And although you’re not the first, you are special. This is the first time I’ve felt like I have something of a handle on this process. It feels like I might have my head wrapped around what it means to write a novel, instead of scurrying frantically after pieces of the process as they zip past me, hoping like hell I got at least some of it right.

Time will tell.

I will push you away. I will dive back in. I will curse at you, ignore you, and editorially flay you to bits. Most likely I will question your value and your right to exist.

But I won’t abandon you. And I won’t just phone you in.

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