Dear Leprechaun Novel,
We've been through a lot together over the last three years. We've spent two nutso, Nanowrimo Novembers holed up in my office, shared many delicious chocolate bars and countless cups of tea, explored (imaginary) Ireland hand in hand, defeated the evil Tooth Fairy and violent Garden Gnomes, and fallen in love.
Well, dear never-ending-work-in-progress, I'm not in love with you anymore.
The feeling has been creeping up on me for months now, the feeling something was wrong in our relationship (in spite of all my desperate work-- four drafts, maybe five!).
The knowledge that spending time with you is no longer a joy fell down on me like a wet woolen blanket. Ugh.
My friends say it's time to put you aside. To start over with another story. Something that will make me giddy about writing again. I know they're right, but I hate breaking up with you. It makes me sad. It feels like defeat, and little like grief. The thought that you could be a "trunk novel" (a work abandoned and tucked away in a trunk forever) is truly ouchy.
Maybe someday we'll get back together. I'll change, and then you'll be able to change. We could still be great, I think. We could still make the hallowed shelves of the school book fair (a precious dream indeed!).
In the corner of my heart, there will always be a place for you, my reluctant Leprechaun. But for now, scurry off and look for your gold without me. I have other tales to tell, other roads to travel.
I'm so sorry.
P.S. I'll remember you and your pots of gold whenever I see a rainbow. How could I not?