Dear Juan Teurite,
Consider this letter our goodbye. Youíll find all your things in a heap by the maple tree in the front yard. You know the place, where you met her. Yes, I mean all your things. Your pens, your sticky notes, your journals, and your USB drives, itís all out there.
Iím fed up. Iím through with this. I wonít wait a minute longer for you to come home and hit return, to wiggle the mouse, or to open my file. Iím done.
You told me once you loved me. You promised youíd be faithful, working only with me. You said youíd be with me to the end. Now look at you. You couldnít even make it to chapter three before you found her. Heck, I wish I could say it was just her, but youíve had one short story after another. I feel so betrayed.
I know I was delusional to think it could just be us. Everyone knows writers are the most unfaithful lot, but I thought I meant more to you than that. I thought itíd just be you and me all the way to chapter forty-three.
I even thought God brought us together. That together, you and I would bless the socks off readers the world over. What a joke. Youíve gave up on our purpose and me a long time ago.
Iíve considered throwing myself into the shredder. Iíve considered asking the little boy who runs around your office to come over and take a fridge magnet to the hard drive, but I couldnít do it. Do you know why? I donít deserve it.
I deserve someone who will treat me right. I deserve someone who will bring out the best in me, someone who sees all of my potential.
You think Iím a lost cause donít you? Well, I donít care. I donít need you anymore. My dream writer is out there.
What's that? Donít you think I can attract someone new? Well, honey, clearly you have forgotten about my captivating plot curves, my scintillating prose, and my deeply dramatic theme. Oh, Iíll woo, and I wonít have to woo long, either.
I know my destiny. It is waiting for me on a cozy, but brightly lit, and prominent bookshelf at Cairnes & Dobles. I can see it better than I can see my protagonist. Iíll be there, sporting a fetching matte jacket with an understated though stunning scene. Fingers will flicker across my jacket so often that theyíll have to put a fresh copy in front every day.
You, on the other hand, will walk in frumpy and disillusioned. Once you realize the others have left you dry and blocked for new material, youíll come in wandering and glossy-eyed, to cast a jealous gaze at all that might have been.
Thatís when youíll see me. I wonder what youíll notice first. Will it be my new title? A title that better grasps my essence than one you could have concocted. Maybe itíll be his name, in bold, Cambria font, just below ďnovel byĒ. Whichever it is, I know one thing, that you will be insanely jealous. I hope the very sight of me heaves your stomach. I hope youíll have to leave the bookstore green, sprinting, and broken.
You donít get to keep me. Youíve lost that right. I am moving on. By the time you find this note, Iíll be gone.
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