Dear Gentle Reader
I am but a hopeful author with a new book that will appear in the marketplace eighteen days yon.
I realize you may not know me from Adam, and we’re not likely related (although my ancestors did sow ample seeds across the Middle West so if you reside amidst the corn and wheat, we may be distant kin). It’s highly probable you could bypass my name on Ye Olde Bookshelf, skipping straight from Queen Anna Maxted to Sir Alexander McCall Smith. But if you pause because you admire the comely cover of Little Black Dress—and perhaps even read a page—I would be in your debt.
Though I am no fledging scribe, each new book feels akin to a new child. After all, when I toil, I shut myself up in the tower like Rapunzel. When hard at work, I barely remember to let down my long hair so Prince Edward can send up a basket with bread and water so I won’t starve. Meanwhile, the rooms below get thick with dust, the weeds grow tall, and Prince Edward wonders, “Will I ever see my fair maiden again? Is she lost to me?”As much as I can’t wait to finish scripting THE END and send off my tome to my publisher (tied to the talons of my falcon, Leonard), it gives me jitters just the same. I know that once I let loose those words, a crew of magical elves will descend upon them. Some of them are wizards in worlds called Marketing and Publicity. Others do mystical things in a land called Production. You must have a special passkey to enter any of those, or so I’m told.
Oft’times I’m tempted to remain in my tower forever. It’s a cozy spot, to be sure, and I spend so much time in a made-up world where I have some control that the forest beyond seems truly scary. There be dragons with fiery breath and claws that may tear my words apart. There be angry townsfolk with pitchforks who may oppose the language used to tell my tales. There be trolls who scrawl messages on the sides of the bridges, telling weary travelers: BEWERE OF THIS BUK. IT BE AWFUL.
Despite my misgivings, I will descend from my tower when my opus is launched. It is both my duty and my curse. So, be kind, Gentle Reader. Know that I have done my best to spin a tale that entertains you and your kinfolk. Believe that I have dripped sweat from my brow and drained emotion from my heart to compose a yarn that pleases you. And if I fail, I fear I will have to try again.
For those who have bestowed kind words upon my works, I am forever in your debt. Should I ever have a pig to spare, it will be yours (and the apple in its mouth as well).
As Ever,
Susan McBride