What shall I pursue today? Shall I pick up my current novel and brush away the current dusting of neglect that has fallen upon it? Shall I perhaps instead, start another novel. Pursue another new idea. Cheat on my current novel, allow the dust of neglect to gather. I know all to well either way though, that in the end, I will return. I always do, it's the fault of being loyal.
Knowing this, is my cheating excused? Will my novel hate me for practicing my skills on others only so it can be shredded down by my newly discovered skills? I do believe my novel hates me, and yet somehow, I know it still loves me. It hates me for the neglect, the all too similar characters, the overly dramatic plot line, the inconsistent style. Yet it still maintains a bizarre love for me, I know. As I maintain a bizarre love for it, despite the sleepless nights, the teasing, the fact that every moment I write I am struggling with my greatest demon. My novel knows this. It can read between the lines of itself. It can see that my patterns for strong heroines is a substituted for my own weakness. It can see that my strange obsession with non-bloodrealted people taking the place of parents shows my desire for family different from the one of which i reside with. It knows that i am just some scared little dyslexic girl, hoping to do something with her life. It knows I only want to make a difference. It knows I only cheat on it out of fear, not boredom or hate.