Dearest Home,
I hear what you’re saying. You’re not happy. I get it, and I'm sorry. Ever since I obsessively took up writing again, you slipped down the totem pole of priorities. It’s not that I don’t think you’re important. You’re awesome, and I feel horrible about the way things have piled up. But it’s been crazy lately, you know? It seems that my best is not enough, and we’re all lucky if anything gets done at all around here.
While we’re being honest with one another, I should tell you that I know all about how you and my husband sat around having drinks together while I was away, debating which one of you is most neglected by me. Nice. Oh, and I see you invited the neighborhood ants into our kitchen. I thought you were classier than that.
Look, we can’t go on this way. I don’t want any hard feelings, and I miss how we used to enjoy each other’s company. Things have changed—that’s life, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but my writing is here to stay. We’re in a busy season, especially with potty training and summer activities, but once school starts back we can spend a little more time together. I can’t promise it will be like it once was, but I truly believe it will all be worth it. You know those shiny new hardwood floors you’ve been eyeballing? Eh? That’s right. J I’m thinking of you, even if my mind is so preoccupied that I don’t show it much these days.
I appreciate you. Did you know a lot of writers have to leave their homes to concentrate, while I write best when I’m snuggled in your shelter? See, you’re a comfort to me.
I’m glad we had this talk. Let’s just try to relax this summer. Please don’t get your basement in a twist when things are hectic. I have a wonderful feeling that it’ll all work out in the end.
Yours Truly,
Wendy