Dear Book

Dear Book,

I hate, loathe, and despise you. Spending quality time with you every night requires bodily dragging myself to the keyboard. If you existed physically separate from my beloved netbook, I would throw you at the wall. I've said all I want to say to you, and you're still not halfway done. I work and work on our relationship, and what have you given me? Blank stares. Blink. Blink.

It's my understanding that relationships go through seasons, and that it's completely normal for me to want to send you through a shredder at this point. For that reason, I'm not breaking it off with you . . . yet. If you don't shape up and start giving me something monumentally good before Surrey, we're through.

I can remember the early days, when minutes used to fly by while my fingers raced across the keyboard, trying to capture your magical words before they evaporated into thin air like mystical bits of literary pixie dust. We need to find a way to go back to that. Like, thirty thousand more words of that. I know you can do it.

And what is this crap you're handing me tonight about the protagonist escaping? How is that supposed to work? Where's she supposed to go, genius? And how will the hero know where to find her? Honestly, sometimes you make me so darn mad . . .

Make up your mind already. Are you in this or not? Because I am. Until we hit the best "we" that we can be, I'm in this. You better start giving me something I can work with, pal.

Willing myself to keep loving you,
Your Author