Ah, my novel. How I love you. You and I have a long way to go together still, I know, but I can tell already that we are going to be the best of friends. We were clearly meant for each other. It has only been two days, but we have come so very far already, what with you and your 9,183 words, and me, with my itcy, furiously flying fingers. Your characters are shapely. Your dialogue pert and witty. Your adjectives numerous. You do not find it odd in the least that the best music for our spending time together is inexplicably either Afroman or Barry Manilow, or better yet, a combination of the two. You have not commented on the massive uptick in my caffeine, chicken strip and peanut butter cup consumption, because you know that this is only because I want to spend more time with you. You, my novel, are clearly better than any other. Particularly my Bride's, with its paltry 5,676 words. Let's throw spitballs at them later to prove we're better.
Some people describe what we feel as euphoria. As ephemeral. As fleeting. But we know that it is meant to last.
At least for the next 27 days.