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.
x x x
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