Dear Life: In Five Movements

Yes. I am thieverising Kiersten White's letters format. Thank you, Kiersten, for giving me the perfect format for my woes. Also, you should read her book. It's amazing. Image from Stock Xchange.

Dear Life,

You know I love you. Really, I do. I just wish some days there wasn't quite so much of you. I'd be very happy if, say, you could cut down on the amount of stuff you need me to do by about half. Or give me twice as many hours in the day. That would also work nicely.

Yours exhaustedly,

Inky.


Dear Mice, Location: Roof,

I really hate being complicit in the murder of cute furry mammals. I'd love it if you could take your party elsewhere. If, however, you really can't, I'll make you an exchange: you can stay trap-free if you'll perform your tapdance on the laptop keyboard and write the novel for me. Either way, quit dancing at night when my husband can hear you; he's the one with the traps.

Deal? Deal.

Yours hopefully,

Inky.


Dear Last Year's Writing,

Do you really have to suck that much? I mean, don't get me wrong: it's okay to suck. But seriously. That much? Really. That's just disappointing.

Yours disappointedly,

Inky.


Dear WIP,

If you ever, EVER even THINK of being as sucktitudinous as Last Year's Writing, I will disown you. Then I'll delete you from my harddrive, shred my paper copies, and send out clockwork spiders to hunt down any other copies in existence (on the internets, in the emails, on the beta reader's harddrives - NOWHERE IS SAFE), which they will promptly poison, wrap in silk, and bring back to me so I can hold a bonfire party. After which, I shall dance on the ashes, gather them up and stick them in a lead containment box, and let them fall into the abyss.

Capisce?

Yours menacingly,

Inky.


Dear Winter,

You and I both know we hate each other, so let's just get this over with: I'm not happy you're here. Frankly, I'm disgusted in you for coming so early. But seeing as you are here, let's call a truce. I won't insult you publically any more, and in return you will not claim any more of my fingers and toes, and neither shall you attack my nose. I WILL NOT BE FROZEN. *brandishes Heater of Doom and puts on the Breastplate of Pure Merino Wool, topped by the Helmet of Cashmere and the Gloves of 40% Possum Fur No For Reals It's True*

Yours determined-not-to-freezingly,

Inky. (<-- NOT Icey.)