My novel tires of me, I believe.
I briefly glanced at it yesterday (I do try to take Sundays off whenever I can) and the manuscript sighed at me. “Not this again,” I swore I could hear it grumble. “Not more of your fingering at me. Either finish me off or be done with me.”
When The Hushing Days turned into a peevish, ill-content lover I do not know.
Could someone please spin a yarn of romance around me and my dear novel. I do believe we both need a little help in finding our happily ever after.