Dear Book,
Forgive my fickle nature. I fall in and out of love with stories, as if I am a twelve-year old boy leaving his first crushes on the jungle bars. (Is twelve too young?)
So, what is it about me and books? I love reading, almost more than any activity. I love a character who can get into my bones and head. Who can read my mind, despite the long distance between us.
As I was saying, latest novel, I do like you - very, very much even. My cavalier nature is not your fault. I just have a natural ability to walk away and not look back. To stop feeling that initial urge to pick you up and open your pages. You're just not as novel to me anymore. (Oh God, was that really bad?)
(Side note for the readers at home: This is an actual "flaw" of mine. If we are going to know each other, then you must realize that every English teacher does not have a book attached to her hand. That even lovers of literature have the ability to fill entire bookshelves with unfinished books. This is true about me, even if it ruins your expectations of me and every other Englishy-type.)
What it comes down to, novel, is you'll just have to be OK with me putting less attention on you, unless you suddenly capture my heart again. I do believe you can surprise me, and I am still willing to give you a chance. For now, that is.
Fondly,
Elizabeth
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