Which brings Word Nerd to the open letter.
Dear Mr. Michael Brewster,
This novel is all your fault. And I don't even know you. (Is that your real name, or just a blog-posting persona?)
Back in March, Mr. Brewster, I posted a flash fiction on Fictional Musings about a woman fighting zombies that came out of her magical grandfather clock. You, apparently, read that story and made the following comment.
ha!I almost fell in love, until the violent end. Still, almost is better than not having loved at all. I'd like to see you explore this world more- great narrator...
What havoc you have wrought in my life from that comment, Mr. Brewster.
I had not given a second thought to this narrator, this world of magical clocks. It was flash fiction, nothing more. Until you posted that comment.
Now. Now, Mr. Brewster, I have written an outline. I have spent weekends and evenings hunched in front of my keyboard. I have created other devices like fire-breathing teapots and mystical bug catchers. I am developing a whole world, Mr. Brewster.
Do I thank you? Do I mutter curses under my breath for the amount of work your comment has made and is making me do?
Do you feel the slightest bit of remorse for your comment? Or are you simply glad to now know that there may well be more of this story, more of this world, a longer chance for you to love the narrator?
Toiling under your influence,