Or maybe you don’t. Not yet anyway. But I want to say it now. Because it’s time. Because it’s past time. If you read my work, if you read my blog, if you send me emails, if you take my classes, if you read other author’s work, if you write, if you write to me, if you call or IM or say you want me or you love me or you’re sorry. If you’re my blood or my kin or my yesterday or my never-was or never-will-be. If you mail me something shiny and new, or beat up and old.

If, by chance,  you came to my house this year or invited me to yours. If you have a baby. Or a dog. If you walked it down my street one summer morning, dark nose pushing into my palm. If you yelled at the Giants or swore at Sarah Palin or laughed at The Office or fell in love with Lost.

An author is not an author if no one reads her work. A writer is not a writer if the words don’t made an impact somewhere. A human is not a human if she does not connect with someone else, somewhere and, in connecting, change a life. Or two lives. Or her own life.

So, yes, baby, I love you. And you. And, yes, you too. I do.

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