
I love my little narrator studio; it’s exactly the space I was hoping to have. Just a lava lamp in the corner is missing, and perhaps a brighter light behind the laptop.
But what was I thinking?
Every time someone calls me an author, I tense up. I can feel it in my shoulders. I purse my lips, and the wrinkles on my forehead grow deeper when I frown. “I wish they would stop calling me that,” a voice inside me whispers.

…
Somehow, not sure how it happened, I ended up writing a book. I thought the hardest part was over when I finished the final chapter and the epilogue, but I was wrong. Along came the editing process—a special kind of nightmare and so much tougher than I thought it would be.