Having birthed a book, I love it so. It rests on Amazon’s e-shelves, fully formed, as prenatally prepared as I could muster as a man. I assume it is healthy, but I worry. And shall I always?
Already consigned to public review, my babe has been pulled from me–for my rest–to be viewed in the maternity ward. I want passers-by to notice my child, my child, and not any other. But the baby’s a baby to anyone else. Do they know its potential, its heroic destiny knit from my womb?
Consign it to eternity and let man and God be its judge. Yet I will always love it for being with me for so long, swimming, enlarging, kicking, and birthing.
Were you worth the pain, sweet book? Yes; I love you no matter what this fallen world may do with you.
(Look at the little darling: isn't it cute?)