My daughter is a paperback

Three boxes of the new paperback version of Drawing in the Dust arrived on my doorstep today. The paperback is being released this month, with a new cover, reviews in the front and a reader's guide in the back. The same month that my two daughters have their birthdays. Holding the paperback in my hands, she seems foreign to me. The book I sent out into the world looked and felt different. She was preciously packaged, and commanded space. I had picked out the earrings and approved every bit of her design. Now she has returned, like a grown child looking for a little money, laundry and food before hitting the road again. She seems to know things I do not. The praises inside the front cover intimate the many places she's been without me. If I cyber-stalk her, I find her written about on posts and blogs, and I have to wonder just how many bedrooms has she been in? How many times has she flown coach or firstclass in the laps of strangers-to-me? I hold the new paperback, and the story I crafted over so many years seems alien. She has thrown off her protective shell, and is loose and liquidy in my hands. She is cheaper, and proud of it. She knows I had no real say concerning her new look. The cover portrays a mysterious woman wrapped in a red shawl spiriting through a Middle Eastern walkway. I do not know this woman. I am unsure which of my characters, if any, she is supposed to depict. If the woman were to turn around, I imagine her smirking at me, her eyes flashing: "You may have created me, but I do not belong to you. Your keyboard can't touch me. You don't even know me..." She is hurrying toward some green door I have never seen before in my life. Behind that door, I can only imagine whose egg-salad smeared fingers will bend and fold her, press lint into her creases, tear her up and pass her around. She knows her power over me. Propped up on my desk she seems to say, "You gave me your heart, and I will turn it into a coffee-coaster if I please." I want to say something in return. I want to advise her relevantly. Something that will comfort her when she swells up with saltwater or kindles a campfire. "You are more than the sum of your words to me. Tears and sparks. And breath."