I fell out of love with my book yesterday. I wasn't really surprised. This happens with every book I write. At first it's the newness of the relationship that makes me excited to meet the book over coffee every morning. Every spare moment I have, I spend dreaming about the book: what it's thinking, where it's going, what it might say the next time we meet. I love it, and what we might be together. Then, after awhile, I begin to notice the flaws. It promised me it would be exciting and take me to new places I'd never been. And sure, we went new places that seemed shiny and amazing, but we've been together for awhile now, this book and I. We've settled into that post-honeymoon blurry-eyed slog. We get up, get in each other's face, and sometimes just sit there for hours, silently and grudgingly staring at each other. With the other books I've written, this un-love can last for several days, if not weeks. But I have a really tight deadline for turning the book in and I don't have much time to whine about our dysfunctional relationship. So I took a couple hours of "me time" and said all the bad things I needed to say about the book. I complained about how it made me feel about myself and my life--not to mention my waistline and housekeeping. I paced, moped for a bit, and cranked up my favorite music. I ignored the book while it sat there, blank-paged and patient for me to return. By the time night rolled around, I found myself thumbing through the pages of things we did together. I read our notes, scanned photos, looked over our future plans. I smiled. I laughed. We really had been to some amazing places and met amazing people. And we do have such cool plans for the future. I realized like this book. Have probably always liked it...maybe even loved it a little, despite its faults. So we're giving it another try, me and the book. And who knows, if I work hard and have some fun once in a while, I might find myself whispering those three magic words every author dreams of: "I End You."