*** TRANSCRIPT ***
I am wordless, which is saying something, because I’m a writer.
But, my dear, you really take my breath away when I’ve seen how much you’ve grown. I can still remember the day you were only one page long, and I was terrified of the daunting task which lay in front of me.
At first, you were just for fun, and I wrote in you whatever I felt I wanted to. But then, an amazing thing happened: you grew into something much, much, more. And I felt that you deserved better. A better name, your characters a better age, your story a better plot.
And so I rewrote.
And, my dear, you wouldn’t believe how many people mocked me, and laughed at me, and told me I couldn’t do it. You don’t know how many people told me to move on, but I wouldn’t have any of it, and a stunning year later, you lay on my computer, finished.
After so many long years of work, after so many mornings when I wished I could write a different novel, a better novel, I now wish I could still write you.
Because you, my sweet little novel, are one of the best things that have ever happened to me. At first draft, you weigh in at a beautifully healthy 63,133 words, or, if you’d prefer, 137 pages (a bit thin for my taste, if I may say, but never mind me over here…).
And I will forever cherish your birthday, twice your birthday, in fact, because it is both the day I began you, and, one year later, the year I finished you; and that date, my dear, is April 27th, 2013/14, at 12:35 AM.
… Wait, you say we aren’t done yet?!
You mean… we still have revisions to do?!
… Oh, great.
Now With Mixed Feelings,