Yes, the novel is undergoing changes, reaching maturity at a frightening pace (some days frighteningly slow), and is beginning to turn from potential into reality.
As the fuzz on it’s electronic chin starts to look more like the goofy and pretentious little beard that Lit majors inevitably sport at one time or another, the story’s purposes and goals seem clearer. Still, there are the bad days, when it despairs as it looks in the mirror and sees zits everywhere, and it’s voice seems to crack and change with every sentence. On those days it wails in despair: How am I ever going to meet a nice Chick Lit looking like this? It hangs its head as each word of the lament is in a different octave.
But the novel has friends, many of whom will likely read this, and the book knows that with their guidance and faith it will reach a noble and fine maturity, one that will make us all proud.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a bunch of zits to squeeze.