Novel, I haven't been writing you. Not for lack of desire; I have thought of you every day since the last time I spit forth the words from my soul, poured life into you. I guess I was just waiting for a day like today, a day where the rain drops down at diagonal angles from the sky like a cleansing; a day where I am wearing an old plaid shirt that somebody else wore out, the shirt I got from a church sale. I guess I was waiting for just the right rain to listen to Max Richter's "November", which is slowly becoming the soundtrack to this novel, and is also the time of year in which I began this seventh-odd draft.
Oh, I haven't forgotten you, friend.
No; I am coming for you, novel.
May is your month.
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Go with grace.