Mother.
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You wrote me, designed me and moved me. Now you say I’m no longer yours. I do understand that when the book went to press we characters took on lives of our own. It must have been a queer moment for you when you sent us out into the world. Especially because you say we’re big parts of yourself. You know, mom, as long as you were writing me I felt safe and somewhat hopeful. It was after the book was published that I started to feel scared. All those people looking at me, talking about me (and you know I positively like being in the limelight). The different ways I was judged by all those people kept throwing me and causing me to question my identity. And it was horrible to be constantly sexualized. It made me feel numb as a thing. Yeeeesh. Maybe next time you could keep the book in a drawer. Or a closet. If there is to be a sequel, that is. Oh, drat, sorry, I forgot that I’m dead. I know! You could write the part of the story that went before.