Our relationship has lasted so many years already, from the early days when you were nothing more than a cluster of thoughts slowly forming in my mind.
It survived the difficult days of the first draft, when characters behaved in unexpected ways and the holes in the story seemed insurmountable.
Through the painfully slow rewrites, and the cutting away of passages we had spent hours carefully constructing.
There were times I hated you, hated myself for not being a better writer; wished I was enough to tell your story with the feeling and power it deserves. There were times I wanted to end our relationship, and free myself of this dependency.
We came close several times: I walked away and found a life elsewhere.
But it never lasted. And you were always there, waiting. I could never forget.
There were moments of sheer joy, where success was so close that we could almost grasp it in our hands. We held tightly to each other and kept moving forward, blind to the sheer drop on either side of this precarious path.
I was tempted by other stories, other things I wanted to write. But still we stayed together.
Without you, I’m less than whole. I’m not the person I should be.
Before you, I didn’t feel I deserved the title. I only wanted to be…