Well, my books have arrived, and I am heading over to pick them up in moments, before hitting the road for what I imagine will be a terribly interesting weekend. I’m making a mad dash across the country to my grandparent’s wedding anniversary on Saturday night, just to immediately turn around haul ass back around here for a reading, which I’ll elaborate on shortly.

When I was a little girl, I used to sit in my bedroom with a crappy blue plastic typewriter and meticulously typ out a little newspaper every week and would excitedly proclaim to my parents and friends that when I grew up, I’d write in newspapers and magazines and then one day, I’d write a book. I’ve had “little me” in mind all day today. In a few minutes when I go to pick up my books, how will I not feel almost parental to “little me”…? How will I not feel like I’ve done right by her? How will I not remember what it felt like to type on those tiny keys and sit in a yellow bedroom and dream about writing a book?

Cheers to “little me”… Perhaps I should have included her in the dedication.

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