You. You there, with your ink-smudged fingers. You, with the stubby nails and callused fingertips. You, with the too-rapid heartbeat from the caffeinated beverages you consume from sunrise to sunset to fuel your muse. Yeah, you.
I love you.
I appreciate every drop of your blood, sweat, and tears that goes into the books you write, the stories you tell. I need you to know that. Books have supported me, taught me, comforted me, made me horny, made me laugh, made me cry. None of that would have been possible without you.
Someone told me I was wasting my life reading. Didn’t they know that I had lived a thousand lives in a matter of years? Who can say they’ve been to Mars? To the moon? To other worlds? To Hell and back again? I can. Anyone who reads can and, dear writer, you have made that possible.
You bawl over your words. I know you do. You poke at your sentences, wishing you could get them perfect, wishing they would arrange themselves into a shining castle of greatness. You read and reread your prose until you’re sick to death of yourself. You ask your significant other or your sister or your dad to read and reread it, you ask for advice, you fork over dollars and chickens and tiny bits of your soul to bankroll this book of yours and I need you to know I love you for it.
I have spent countless hours buried in your words, thinking about the way that last sentence rolled off my tongue, laughing until tears stained my cheeks and dampened my shirt collar, crying until my chest hurt, mourning the loss of characters as real to me as any real life person. I have scrimped and saved for your books. I’ve held them close. I’ve picked up extra copies at book sales because I love them so much.
Your hard work is worth it. Your struggles, your fears, your doubts that you’re good enough–they’re all worth it. You’re changing lives, you’re brightening days, you’re giving hope and company to the lonely.
You rock, writer, and you should know that. Don’t stop telling stories, okay? I’d be lost without you.