I had been writing for a long time. I had notebooks full of scribbled poems, and half started ideas. I had been blogging for years. But, writing a book wasn’t even a blip on my radar. I hadn’t even considered it.
I can’t write a book. I’m a horrible speller, my grammar is only so-so. I am the queen of malapropisms (according to my husband) and I was diagnosed with dyslexia when I was in first grade.
Then I had a dream. The real, sound-asleep-in-my-bed, kind of dream. It was weird, disturbing, and completely fantastical. I woke up and knew I wanted to write about it.
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