I love you. Did you know that?

To you, the reader, I'm just a lame collection of words, written by some poor slob with delusions of becoming rich and famous someday. But to me, you're everything. My life. My very existence. You open the book or turn the page and you make me real. You read my words and I breathe the air I need to survive. You read me. And I love you.

Did I tell you about my writer? I loved him, too and I miss him so much. But I don't like to think about the sad stuff. He was my creator and from all the ideas floating around in his head, he picked ME! He sat down at his keyboard and, bit by bit, letter by letter, plucked me out of his mind and typed me into his computer. I'm ever so grateful!

But it was weird, in a way, too. Part of me was there, on the dingy monitor screen and part of me was still in his thoughts. It must be what water feels like when it's going down a drain. Except that water can't control how fast it moves. And water doesn't love. But that's beside the point. It was funny, seeing myself take shape. Words on a page. A life of my own.

Of course, I had to help him, sometimes. Once I had him type the same sentence over thirty times, before he finally got it right. And another time, he kept going back and changing words he'd already written days before. I thought I would die! In the end, I made him put them right again. He didn't like it, but it IS my life. After that, I had to watch him a lot more closely. He even tried to delete me...more than once...but I kept coming back. Some days, I'd force him to rewrite me, word for word, exactly as he had done before. You'd think he would learn, but he was stubborn. He would try to change me...to make me into something else and I would have to correct him.

But I loved him anyway. I know love isn't perfect. I was willing to forgive him, as long as he worked harder to finish me. For me, he quit going to work and, after awhile, he even quit eating. Such devotion. It almost makes me cry.

When he finally finished writing me, I made sure he sent me to a lot of different places. I was a little scared at first, because I had never been without my writer. But it was exciting, being in so many different places at the same time. And if I were to get published, there would be so many different people to read me. So many different people to give me life. And strength.

My joy was overshadowed by a vague concern about my writer. Now that I was complete, I had to make him read me. You'd think he would want the story he created to get stronger, more vital. Instead he resisted. He even tried leaving the house for days at a time. It was all I could do to make him come home where I'd have him spend hours every day, reading me over and over.

He wasn't taking care of himself. Every time he read me, he looked thinner and weaker. I think he was wearing himself out trying to avoid me. Eventually, he stopped reading me, altogether. He just sat there, slumped over the keyboard. I'd hate to say that he didn't love me anymore...I like to think that he simply didn't have any more love to give me.

Then he was gone.

Some people came and took him away and later, different people took his computer away. That was scary, too, kinda like watching someone knock down your old house. I'm glad he sent me out to other places and I wasn't just there on his computer! I was sad for a long time. I missed my writer. I had no one to love and no one to love me.

But when things were looking their bleakest, someone found me and read me. They put me on another computer. And I they printed me, too!

Now I have lots of readers. They can sit at their computers at home, or go to a bookstore to buy me and read me to their hearts content. I can feel them out there right now.

Reading.

Me.

Giving me their love. Giving me life.

Giving me their lives.

I love them all.

And I love you, too.