I tore open an envelope with my galleys and jumped up and down waving them in the air and screaming incoherently while alone in a dirt field full of sage and prairie dogs.
Reading my novel in actual printed book format (because it’s an actual printed book!) is so different than reading it in a very long Word document. It feels… real.
I dedicated the book to my grandmother, who had a difficult life and a grade-school education. We didn’t share a language in common, so we couldn’t write letters or even speak on the phone.
What she and so many other women, especially women of color, went through and fought and pushed against so I could be here today, writing and publishing a novel, choosing whether or not I want to get married or have kids, has kept me going so many times when I’ve doubted my work. And now I get to trace my finger over her name, in print, at the beginning of my book.
Her name. I put it there.