Quite often, my friends and acquaintances will ask, "Does it seem real yet--that you're actually getting published?" and typically, I say yes. It feels real now, but then something happens like someone talented and wonderfully creative writing something incredible about something I wrote, and it seems crazy weird all over again.
When I was seven years old, I wanted to be a published novelist. I sat alone in my parents' den at this old desk my dad had, smelling pipe tobacco and writing stories about princesses, and I remember thinking then, I wonder what I'll write about in the future.
Even now, I don't know what I'm writing about until the characters come to life and tell me. I am so grateful to have this ability and this good fortune to share my stories with readers. Thank you!