You sit there, your first 3 chapters, printed, hovering on my desk, neglected, untouched …
But not forgotten.
You linger in the recess of my mind. I want to reach for you, I really do …
But the world demands so much of me right now.
No, no… that’s not entirely true.
I despair from the neglect I have shown you.
I grieve the void of being unable to immerse myself in your world unbidden.
To allow my written words to breath life into your characters and evoke visualisation of your scenery.
You are at a point where I know my commitment to you should be long and laboured.
A commitment I can not quite make.
A commitment to take you from your embryonic state in which you exist to the butterfly I wish you to become.
Not yet, but soon … I hope …
Are your feelings hurt?