Honey, I’m sorry for all the late nights,
Attempting in vain to refocus my sights.
And clacking away by the laptop’s dull glow,
Checking out to recapture my mental tableau…
It’s just that in book land, few things compare,
With new projects whose prose doesn’t pepper my hair.
It’s small victories I use to measure good days,
Like when word counts on rewrites have lowered, not raised.
If I miss a deadline and cause Copyedit to frown,
It’s up from the grindstone, my nose I must brown.
All the emails, the phone calls, the proposals from Don,
Some days I forget just what planet I’m on.
But I come home, you greet me and kiss me each day,
And I know in that moment there’s no advance I could pay,
No royalty offers could hold so much wonder,
As you and your gift of not stealing my thunder,
While I regale you with details of projects unending,
And your glazed look betrays the despair you’re not sending.
It’s then that I realize, the books don’t much matter.
It’s you and your trim size that fills up my platter.
Your effortless care of my heart’s P&L,
Brings more joy than any 50% gross profit line can tell,
You balance my numbers with such swift delight,
For the treasure you bring, I would forfeit sub-rights.
And if this, my analysis, my projection, is sound,
Baby, your love is the greatest hardback I’ve found.
In your pages I know that our cycle of spans,
Will grow deeper wherever each rogue contract lands,
From endorsements to end pages, what I most endeavor,
Is just one more chapter in our book of forever.
Happy Hearts Day, Funny Valentine.