Book #1 is not yet put to bed–I’m in the process of selling it–yet book #2 is already here, forming inside my head, forcing itself out of me, filling the page with words, swelling my eyes with tears. What a strange and psychotic life this is to live as a writer. I did not know this is what it would become. Before this time, I was trying so hard to write, to be an artist who intentionally crafted a piece into existence. Now I am just a lonely person surrounded by the unformed and inconsequential prattle of children, and these books are how I have a conversation with the world.