It’s been about three and a half weeks since I had my decompression surgery to free up some space for my crowded cerebellum, and my healing is going well.
If you follow me on Instagram (@kristincashore), then you’ve been seeing a lot of little updates, pictures, and videos about my journey, but today is the first time I’ve felt well enough to come onto the blog. It’s harder here. This is partly because of the extra neck and head strain caused by a computer versus a phone, but it’s mostly because the canvas here is so large. On Instagram, I can provide updates in little blips. Here, I’m faced with the enormity of the experience I’ve had. Maybe that word is too grand — enormity — but the last few months have certainly been enormously strange. It’s hard to know where to begin, and where to go once I’ve begun. I expect it’s going to take me a while to process all that I’ve seen and experienced — and especially the kindness and generosity I’ve received — since this whole thing began.
My cerebellum has a brand new, bigger home, delicately built for me by Dr. Philipp Taussky and his team at the Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston. Thank you, Dr. Taussky! It’ll be a few weeks before we know how my cerebellum has adjusted to her new home, but Dr. Taussky is hopeful, and so am I. I can barely speak about the care I received at the BIDMC without tearing up. I was there for four days and wish that everyone with medical needs could be as well taken care of as I was. The nurses who brought me through that hard time were Leah, Zoia, Sydney, Sam, Kendra, Merissa, Kerrill, Kayla, and Alisa. I hope I didn’t forget anyone; I was on a lot of drugs at the time, but I was writing your names down on my phone whenever I could remember. This is because I could tell, even through the drug haze, that you were extraordinary in the work you do.
During those four days, my husband navigated the drive between Watertown and the BIDMC ten times. This will mean nothing to those of you who’ve never driven in Boston, so you’ll have to trust me when I say that this alone was a feat of heroism. He brought me thermoses of chicken rice soup made with his own delicious homemade broth. He brought me my teddy bear. Eventually he brought me home, then moved himself into his office where he slept on an air mattress so that I could have the bed to myself for a while. All of this is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how Kevin has been supporting me since this ordeal began.
Me and Kevin at the BIDMC.
This is why I haven’t been blogging — because where do I stop? Do I mention that my sisters set their alarms for 4:40 on the morning of my surgery so that they could wake up when I did and keep me company over text? Do I mention that I couldn’t wash my hair for two weeks and had to keep it in greasy pigtails, so that my incision, which looked like something from Frankenstein’s monster, could be kept clear and dry? (These days, it’s looking pretty great. I’m going to have a nice neat scar.) Should I mention that one of my sisters flew in to take care of me for a few days and made an apple pie for my husband’s birthday, because I couldn’t make it myself? Should I mention that when I went in for my followup appointment to get my sutures out, I learned that the flexible shield that Dr. Taussky built inside my head to protect the work he’d done was made of the pericardium of an organ donor?
Each of these things is still too much to process. So that’s why I haven’t been blogging. But I’m dropping in today to let you know that I’m OK, and that all will be well.
Before my surgery, I made myself a bunch of signs, anticipating what some of my challenges would be during my healing. I’ll close by sharing the sign that’s been most helpful to me (thank you, Vicki, for suggesting it!): “My healing is nonlinear.” I’m sharing this one because I bet that if you’re healing from something, your healing is nonlinear too. Healing is complicated and slow. Be kind to yourself. Be patient. Things change.
(The awesome stickers on this sign are the artwork of Marika Paz).
Today I’m pleased to share the cover for my upcoming There Is a Door in This Darkness, which comes out in June 2024. For more info and a brief excerpt, please visit the Penguin Teen Blog. This lovely cover was designed by Jessica Jenkins and Theresa Evangelista.
I’ll have more details to share about this book as the time nears. It’s about magic, doughnuts, amusing prophecies, friendships, elephants, snow geese, owls, and grief (among other things), and it takes place in my own home of Watertown, Massachusetts. I’m quite proud of it, actually. More info to come when I’m less dizzy! Before I go, though, I’ll mention a difference of opinion that’s arisen. Some people see a gold background, shining through a maze that’s cut into a painted blue foreground. Some people see a blue background, with a golden maze drawn on top of it. It’s like The Dress. Remember The Dress? Take a look. Look closely! What do you see?
(One more thing: I’ve largely moved my social media presence to Instagram, so feel free to follow me there at @kristincashore.)
One day in late June, I woke up to a strong sensation of dizziness. Not “the room is spinning” dizziness; more a kind of “I am trapped on a terrible boat” dizziness. I was in Vermont by myself. I talked to my husband on the phone. “I hope this goes away by tomorrow,” I said, “because I’m not sure I should drive home while I’m feeling like this.”
When I woke up the next day, it was gone. Relieved, I drove home. Then, the day after that, the dizziness returned. When it didn’t let up, I went to my excellent doctor’s office, where they did a thousand kinds of lab work, then a thousand kinds of follow-up lab work, and determined that I was a really healthy person. There was nothing wrong with my heart, my blood sugar, my gut. I passed all the neurological tests. I was told it was likely an infection and would pass. Then, a day or two later, the dizziness went away again. Good, I thought, it was an infection! Onward, forward.
Then, a couple days later, the dizziness came back again, and from that point onward — two months ago today, in fact — it has never once gone away. I am always dizzy, every moment. Sometimes, like now, it’s mild, and I’m able to read, watch a screen, take a bus. At other times, reading, screens, and any movement whatsoever causes too much visual input and worsens the dizziness, and all I can do is listen to an audiobook while staring at the wall. Rarely, it’s so bad that I’ll be trapped for 18 hours (my record so far) in a sensation of severe dizziness that does not let up and does not let me sleep, eat, or do anything other than wait for it to end.
For the past week or so, it’s been kind to me. I’m living almost a normal life; it’s just that I’m always dizzy. I’m able to write this because my dizziness is being kind. I even handed a new book in to my agent a couple days ago!
But back to the mystery.
A few weeks into my unending dizziness, I contacted my doctor again. Concerned that I was still feeling dizzy, she brought me back in. Once again, I passed all the neurological tests. I could touch my fingers to my nose and keep my arms extended and walk up and down the corridors like a champ. Yes, my head was telling me that I was trapped on a terrible boat, but I was really quite unconfused while walking — which, in retrospect, is weird. That’s not how dizziness usually functions.
“I’m stumped,” she said. Then she set me up with an ENT appointment. This made a lot of sense to me, because not only was I dizzy, but my ears were popping all the time, sometimes they were ringing, and most of all, my noise sensitivity was off the charts. I’ve always been sensitive to noise. But lately, I could be in my office with the door closed and my husband could be three rooms away in the kitchen, opening the microwave and closing the refrigerator door, and I would need to put in earplugs, because his behavior was too loud. Which, in retrospect… is weird.
The soonest ENT appointment I could get was a month away. The dizziness was causing enough anxiety and disruption at this point that the wait was upsetting to me, but what could I do? Then, over the course of the next few days, my dizziness worsened, significantly. My doctor, who incidentally was messaging with me regularly, including on weekends, and is the most exceptional medical professional I’ve ever encountered, asked me to come in again. Once again, I marched up and down the corridors like a champ. I touched my nose, et cetera. My doctor told me that she was having a dilemma, because I kept passing all the neurological tests with flying colors, which meant that she could not justify a brain MRI to my health insurance company. But while I was there, she put a thousand more lab tests in motion.
By the next morning, all the lab tests results had come in, indicating that I was extremely healthy in even more ways than I’d previously thought. That morning, I drove myself somewhere to complete an errand. (This whole time, I’d been driving and it had been just fine. Again, the sensation in my head was telling me I was trapped on a boat, but my body was moving through the world just fine.) When I reached my destination and got out of the car, I was overwhelmed by the most severe dizziness I’d experienced so far. For an hour or so, I sat on a bench, crying and trying to get my shit together, determined to be independent and get myself home if it killed me. The thing is, it was such an awful sensation, like my head was full of horrible heavy cars spinning out of control. Finally, I called my husband and asked him to come collect me. He immediately ran out the door and jumped onto his bike, like the loving hero he’s been throughout this entire debacle. While I was waiting for him to reach me, it occurred to me that I was sitting on a bench very close to my doctor’s office. I called the office again. I said, “Want to try those neurological tests again? I bet I might be able to fail one of them right now.”
A few hours later, I was lying in an MRI machine. The next day, my husband and I met virtually with my doctor, who opened the radiologist’s report and told me that I had a brain condition called Chiari Malformation Type I, wherein my cerebellum, which is the lower back part of the brain, was being pulled down into my spinal column.
It was a non-dangerous condition I was probably born with, she told me. Most people with this condition go their whole lives never knowing; only a small fraction of people are symptomatic. I was one of the symptomatic people; I was dizzy because the cerebellum is the part of the brain that orients us in space, and my cerebellum was being squeezed. She told me that it’s a condition that can be corrected by a “procedure,” which even in my overwhelmed state I recognized as code for brain surgery. She also told me that she was thrilled by this diagnosis, which is when I understood how much my doctor had been worried about other, worse possibilities.
Well. That was a lot to adjust to.
What’s followed has been many medical appointments. More MRIs, which I’m grateful to find rather relaxing. The noises the machine makes are interesting to me. They almost always sound like the opening beat to some track a DJ is laying down at a nightclub, but then the song never starts. And, oh my goodness, the people at Mount Auburn Hospital MRI are so kind. The people at my doctor’s office are so kind, and dedicated, and skilled at getting my insurance to approve things. The neurologist sussed how anxious I was, and spent as much time comforting my anxiety as helping me with my cerebellum. The ENT I finally saw was extremely sympathetic about my situation and was also the first man who’s ever looked at my Nancy Drew sweatshirt and immediately understood what it meant. “I was a Hardy Boys reader myself,” he said. Um. Who told you the way to my heart? The neurosurgeon I met a couple weeks ago walked into the room and asked me if I was the author of the Graceling Realm books, then patiently answered about 25 detailed questions my sisters and husband had helped me to compile. He also told me that the neck, shoulder, arm, and hand pain I’ve been grappling with for decades was probably misdiagnosed. Those symptoms are classic Chiari, he said, which has been a lot to absorb. It’s been making me sad for my younger self, who did a lot of extreme stretching and massage that may actually have been making things worse. It’s also been making me sad for my poor squished cerebellum. I’m sorry, cerebellum!! You’ve been trying to tell me you’re not okay for decades!! I didn’t mean to ignore you!!
I’ve also had a few funny moments of revelation, or at any rate, I’ve decided to find them funny. For example, every doctor I’ve seen has asked me the same series of symptom questions, and there are a few symptoms to which I’ve always responded in the negative. “Do you have any light sensitivity?” “Nope,” I answer cheerfully. Then, about a week ago, as I went for a walk on an overcast day while wearing sunglasses and carrying an umbrella to protect myself from the terrible glaring clouds, it finally occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I do have a little bit of light sensitivity. Maybe my decades-long certainty that the sun is trying to kill me could be reframed, and called “light sensitivity?” Here’s another one: “Do you consider yourself unsteady on your feet?” “Nope,” I answer cheerfully. Then, also about a week ago, I found myself thinking about that one a little. I went to my husband. “You know that question about whether I’m unsteady on my feet?” I asked him. “Yep,” he said. “Do you remember,” I said to him, “every time we’ve ever walked through any kind of woods together?” “Oh,” he said, in a voice of dawning revelation. “I see what you mean.” Because the truth is that on an uneven path or a steep path or a slippery path, I fall apart. I’m certain I’m going to fall; I often need help; I’m astonished by how steady everyone else is. I’ve always assumed I’m surrounded by a disproportionate sample of superior walkers. Not that I’m unsteady on my feet.
We haven’t scheduled the surgery yet. We have a bunch of scheduling complications in the coming weeks, plus, I’ve been advised to wait for a second opinion on the principle that if someone’s going to cut into your head, it never hurts to get a second opinion. But I do think this surgery is in my future. There’s a hole at the base of our skulls through which the spinal chord passes. The surgeon will widen that hole, so that my cerebellum has room to spread out. (I always imagine this making a happy “bloop” noise.) There’s a very good chance that this will alleviate my symptoms, but it’s not certain, so there are ways in which I’m grateful for this waiting time. Because I’m learning how to live with this, and proving to myself that I can. Activities like eating, working, resting, and getting around are more complicated than they used to be, but I’m figuring them out.
I’m learning a lot of things, actually. Even before this happened, I was wanting to slow down a bit, and this has forced me to slow down. Also, my whole life, symptoms like anxiety and nausea have been very tied up together in confusing ways, and at the beginning of the dizziness, this was a real problem, because, naturally, the dizziness was causing me anxiety, and sometimes it was also causing me nausea. And then the anxiety was causing me nausea. And then the nausea was causing me anxiety. And then the nausea and the anxiety were causing more dizziness. Etc., etc. – if you have anxiety, you know how the symptom escalation goes. But since my diagnosis, I’ve been forced to do that thing the meditation experts are always trying to teach us to do: Sit with my sensations and tease apart what is causing what. For example, I’ve had to learn the difference between the sensation of dizziness and the sensation of nausea, because (have I mentioned that this dizziness is weird?) often my dizziness will lie to me, and tell me that I’m nauseated when I’m not. The sensation inside my head will say to me, “We are trapped on a terrible boat, and we cannot possibly eat.” But in the meantime, my stomach is shouting, “Hellooooo! Everything is fine down here! Where’s my dinner?” I’ve had to learn that the best course of action in these moments is to eat my dinner, because I’m not actually nauseated — but I will be, if I don’t eat. Of course, the anxiety is more difficult to figure out and manage than any of the other symptoms. Anxiety is such a hard one. But I’m certainly getting some opportunities to work on it. Sometimes, when things get extra challenging, the learning accelerates. (I’ll merely add that my present ability to look at it in a positive light is a sign that I’m not currently anxious.)
Some housekeeping: If you’ve noticed that I’m not signing books at Harvard Book Store at the moment, this is why. If you’re among the group of people who ordered signed books and received bookplates instead of signatures in the actual book, I hope you weren’t too disappointed, and this is why. I could not get myself into the store to sign, due to my squished cerebellum. Please know that I signed those bookplates at my dining room table with even more gratitude and care than usual. If you’ve asked me a question on Twitter and I haven’t responded, this is why. I have limited reading capacity, and I can’t do much social media at the moment (plus, things have deteriorated so much on Twitter, and I haven’t had the wherewithal to figure out what to do about it yet).
Some gratitude: My husband. My doctors. My sisters and sister-in-law. My friends. There are no words. I promise I’m going to be fine. I’m also grateful to live in the Boston area. There are no doctors in the world to whom I would rather entrust my cerebellum. And of course, I’m grateful to have a diagnosable condition that doctors understand, is non-dangerous, and is correctable.
I’m going to be fine, and in fact, for the moment at least, I am fine. I will try to come back here with updates.
Now please excuse me while I go for a walk on a flat surface, while wearing sunglasses and protecting myself from the bright clouds with an umbrella.
Greetings, fellow Earthlings (and anyone else who might be reading ^_^). You know, it’s occurred to me recently that one of the reasons my blogging has dropped off is because of my general ambivalence about social media in recent years. I’m meant to be a blogger, not a Tweeter or an Instagrammer, not a TikTokker, etc. It’s just how I’m built. I like to write thoughtful paragraphs. It comes naturally and doesn’t stress me out. But I’m told blogs are dead. This raises so many questions. If something isn’t popular and doesn’t create as much frenzy as something else, does that mean it’s a waste of my time? If ignoring my Twitter notifications for a few weeks brings with it sense of peace and well-being, might that possibly mean Twitter isn’t good for me? If Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg are having a cage match, is there any way we can arrange for both of them to lose? Etc., etc.
Anyway, in today’s changing social media landscape, I intend to sort out my approach, and I’m going to do it fairly soon, because: I have a new book coming out next May! I’m really proud of it. It’s a YA full of magic, and also doughnuts, owls and albatrosses, friendships, mysteries, and even a little romance, plus it happens to take place during election week 2020, during the Covid pandemic, in my own home of Watertown, Massachusetts. It’s called There Is a Door in This Darkness. At some point, I’ll be excited to share the cover and more details! But I wanted to let my faithful blog readers know that it’s on the way.
Also, I wanted to report on a recent involuntary experiment. Like many writers, I am prone to fall subject to the assumption that if a writing day is easy, that means my writing is probably pretty good that day; or maybe more to the point, if a writing day is terribly hard, that means my writing is probably crap that day. But I’ve also noticed, across the years, that this seems objectively not to be true. And it just so happens that I’m coming off of an extremely difficult week (everyone and everything is fine, please don’t be alarmed, but it was a week of intense distress and anxiety). For whatever reason, maybe denial, I decided not to allow myself any time off from writing during that awful week. I wrote every day. It was horrible. Every sentence was agony. I was extremely distracted and anxious, every page was a giant fight. And every day, I was convinced that I was writing crap.
But then the terrible week ended, and I looked back over what I’d written. And it was neither better nor worse than what I’d written during the happy weeks prior. It was pretty good, actually; it was just fine; it was just like all my writing.
Conclusion: I think that when it comes to the quality of your work, it doesn’t necessarily matter how you feel, or how you feel about it. What matters is that you’re doing it. You’re pushing through, or, on the good days, something is pulling you through. Either way, the point isn’t how you feel. It’s that you’re sitting in the chair, doing the work.
However, I also think that in life, it does absolutely matter how you feel. I could’ve given myself the week off, or at least not pushed myself so hard, and maybe that would’ve facilitated recovery from all the other stuff. Which means that I also support the opposite conclusion: Sometimes it’s OK to not do the work.
I hope I remember to be easier on myself next time. And I hope you’re all being easy on yourselves! Be well, everyone. More soon, when I have news or fun blather.
I am once again writing a blog post mainly for the purpose of testing whether my new email distribution system is working (signs point to no), so I apologize to anyone who continues to be subjected to these content-empty blog posts!! I’m not the absolute worst at tech stuff, and I even live with a tech guy, but nonetheless, there’s so much in the world of computer technology that’s so difficult for anyone who isn’t an expert. I wish it were not so. I feel a little bit like a seahorse who is trying to build a web, or a spider who is trying to survive underwater, or any number of metaphors about not belonging where you are :).
La la la. Ho hum! Now we have gotten to the point in the post where I insert a random picture, so that if the email that is supposed to send does indeed, via some miracle, send (signs point to no), I will be able to see how it handles pictures. Let’s see, what do I want to share this time? Let’s go with this little guy whom I collaged into being.
Well then, there we have it. Another thrilling blog post from the desk of a beloved author. 🙂 If I can’t get this to work this time, I will probably have to resort to professional help, so be comforted that at least this should be the last post like this one. Be well, everyone.
Hi everyone, today’s blog post is mostly a test for my new emailing system, so feel free to ignore it. I’m going to test whether I receive an email of it in a format that’s to my liking, then delete it. But I plan to be back soon with some actual content! I have a lot of thoughts and ambivalence lately about social media, but I don’t want it to keep me from blogging… I miss the days of thoughtful blogging.
In the meantime, here’s an excellent bird I saw recently in Harvard’s Museum of Natural History. 🙂
Hi all. Just a quick note that if you want to buy personalized copies of any of my books in time for the holidays, get your orders in at Harvard Book Store by Friday, December 2 at the latest! That’s a week from today. This will provide time for processing, signing/personalization, mailing, etc. Here’s the link for ordering.
Thanks so much to everyone who came out for one of my Seasparrow launch events! Once the launch was over, I snuck away to Vermont for some snowy writing time. Here’s one of the sunrises I woke up to…
And here’s the little guy who kept me company on my desk.
Today is Seasparrow‘s birthday in North America, and I’m so very pleased. I hope I’ll see some of you at one or more of my Events. Also, this week only, I’m happy to announce a steep sale on e-books for the Graceling Realm backlist. US-based readers only (sorry, other readers!), any retailer, $2.99, through Saturday, November 5.
And now, on to our story. (Yes! On to our story!)
Depending on how long you’ve followed my blog, you may or may not know that Halloween is very important to me. For the last three years, I’ve had nothing to dress up for. But this year, Halloween came back.
So I collected my supplies.
I discovered that a surprising number of fuzzy things are available on Poshmark.
I constructed a red, flowy thing with golden ties.
I constructed a yellow felt lightning bolt with a capital G in the middle.
Then I got to work on the tricky bit, which I built out of EVA foam, then painted silver.
Faster than lightning! Stronger than steel! Smarter than a speeding bullet! It’s… Oh dear. It’s Super Grover.
Happy Halloween, everyone. And happy birthday, dear Hava and Seasparrow! I hope that Hava will find her way into your hearts, dear readers. Happy reading.
I’ll start with a reminder that I’m now doing events for Seasparrow, which releases on Tuesday, November 1. I’ll be at An Unlikely Story on Tuesday 11/1, I have an online event with Once Upon A Time on Wednesday 11/2, and I’ll be at Harvard Book Store on November 15. Please see my Events page for details.
Next, you can now read a short excerpt from Seasparrow! Thanks to Tor.com for making this possible. Read the excerpt here.
Another Seasparrow announcement: Fairyloot and Gollancz are doing a special signed Seasparrow edition, to match their signed editions of the earlier books. An exclusive cover, solid sprayed edges, patterned endpapers. Supplies are limited! Learn about the Fairyloot edition here.
Next, I’m pleased to announce that Graceling is being newly released in audio, read by Xanthe Elbrick, who narrates all the other Graceling Realm audiobooks in the US. I love the work Xanthe does bringing my worlds to life, so this is lovely news. The audiobook releases on January 10, 2023, and you can preorder it on your favorite digital audio retailer now!
Finally, I’ve been sharing some photos over on twitter from my artist residency with The Arctic Circle, an experience which directly influenced much of the setting of Seasparrow. For just over two weeks, we sailed on the tall ship Antigua through the Arctic Ocean around Svalbard. (Search my blog with the term “Arctic Circle” if you’d like to see lots of pictures.) In Seasparrow, Hava learns how to climb the mast, and finds it a frightening but also liberating experience. Here are a couple of photos of the research I did. John Hirsch took the first one (with the phone I shoved at him!), and Barbara Liles the second.
On the right, Captain Mario Czok gives me tips as I begin my first climb.
Here I am climbing on my own. My harness had two hooks, so I was always hooked in. Nonetheless, it was scary! The ship was moving, and it fell very high and cold.
That’s it for today. I suppose I’ll have to come back soon to share my Halloween costume :), but in the meantime, happy reading, and I hope I’ll see some of you at an event in the coming weeks!
A note that if you’re not interested in tour events for Seasparrow or the preorder campaign but you are ARE interested in my writing process, scroll down past the two big, informative squares :). I share photos below of some of the tools I used to sustain my emotional mood while writing Seasparrow.
First, events. The release of Seasparrow is just around the corner — November 1 — and I have gatherings to share! I’m doing three local, in-person events and one virtual event. Everything’s listed below and you can get all the details at my Events page. (Please note that I’ll be signing books BEFORE my panel at the Boston Book Festival on October 29, NOT AFTER. I’ll add those details to my Events page as soon as I have them.) Please come join me and Hava!
Also, my US publisher, Penguin Random House, is running a preorder promotion for US readers. Readers in the US, preorder Seasparrow in any format, from any vendor, and register/upload your receipt here. Please hit @PenguinTeen at Twitter or Instagram with questions!
Finally, I have some photos to share from my writing notebooks for Seasparrow. Before Seasparrow, I always wrote in large, college ruled, spiral-bound, hard-covered notebooks — always, for every book. But a couple things changed as I transitioned from writing Winterkeep to writing Seasparrow. One change is that my physical pain increased and I started to have more hand and finger problems. I started to need more forgiving pens. I taught myself to write with my nondominant hand and began using both hands alternately to write my books.
Another, unrelated change is that for whatever reason, the voice or mood of Seasparrow felt different to me from anything I’d done before. I knew the book was going to be told from Hava’s first person perspective, and for some reason, I found myself searching for notebooks that felt Hava-ish to me. She doesn’t keep a diary, but if she did, maybe she would like the notebooks I chose?
The picture below shows a sampling.
The beautiful art shown in the two pictures below was created by Elise Hurst. You should definitely check out her website.
On October 23, 2018, I began the first serious first draft of Seasparrow on the page below.
Sometimes these notebooks gave me an opportunity to decide how Hava herself would fill in the boxes. 🙂
There’s a beauty and ease to filling your workday with images that feel like the writing you’re doing. Before I go, though, I’ll mention that there’s a hazard that goes along with it — namely, that when you read your own writing to assess whether it has the emotional impact you mean it to have, your judgment is clouded by the emotional impact created by the art around you! It’s the same with listening to music while you write, which is something many writers do effectively. It’s great if it works for you, but you need to make sure that when you read your own writing, you’re assessing its impact and its impact alone — not merely being swayed by the music you’re listening to. Use the tools that help you get through the hard work of creation, but don’t forget that the reader will be reading your words, and your words only. Your words must carry the book.
And that’s my news for today. I hope to see some of you out in the world for the release of Seasparrow! Happy reading, everyone.