Image by Austin Distel on Upsplash
My Dear Katrina Maria Harvey,
Oh, how you must have laughed to see me lay my uncorrected proof of love in your inbox. I made an exclusive submission for your heart, not knowing you were accepting simultaneous submissions from so many others. How acquisitive you are.
Had I but known of your checkered provenance, I would have been wiser. But, no. I was merely aspiring. I offered you my sole Advanced Readers Copy unaware that the offered in return, at best, one of your numerous first edition, first print runs. The errata was mine alone, Dummy that I was.
Now my soul is gauffered with agony, like a leather book cover branded with designs by hot steel. My love is remaindered. My hope has been pulped. My advanced trust was unearned.
You, who I thought a bibliophile, are truly a biblioklept.
I remove my shelf-worn self from your life. My opus is full of wormholes. Yet I hope to be rebound someday. Farewell, you counterfeit muse. Despite your disguise, I see the hindrance you really are.
Ps. I have nearly finished a new work. Imagine Gilbert & Sullivan meet Scarlet O’Hara in a dystopian, post-apocalypse Atlantis with zombies. I’ll be in touch soon.
(We can still be friends)