For Better or Worse

Dearest Novel,

Remember that day we first came together—the rush of emotions and first blush of deep recognition? The way your bashful, first blank page called to me? We had such plans, you and I, hopes and dreams. The future was a vast, assailable puzzle we were dedicated to unraveling together. I couldn’t imagine splicing images and their deep meanings with anyone else, or discovering new vistas, or deciding which direction to travel. We viewed situations and people through the same lens, although often I was more forgiving. I always want to wait and give everyone a second chance but you would point out pages and pages of incriminating examples. We didn’t always get along, that much is true. Sometimes you just wouldn’t open up to me and occasionally, I felt you were growing distant and unknowable. But we stuck it out, through thick and thin, the good times and bad, and if at times, I split an infinitive or wrote clunky dialogue, or used the word that even after promising and promising I’d quit—well, it was just my enthusiasm getting ahead of me. I have never been anything but committed to this relationship. Time moved forward, the two of us entwined. And we have these others to think about now, these characters crowding in, and you’ve been perfectly nurturing even if they can, from time to time, disregard the structure you’ve imposed. Somehow, you keep it all together. I suppose in any long relationship, tendencies can rile and frustrate—you, for example, tend to live a bit in your own world and I, well—I can do the same. It gets on my nerves when you repeat yourself or go on and on about something you’ve learned. But you still have the ability to bring me to tears with exquisite phrasing or a heartfelt big gesture. The magic is still there, that’s what I’m saying. I’ll be here for you. Let’s keep trudging forward, you and I, all the way to The End.