Anyone who has knew me as a girl can testify. I was always clutching a sketchpad or a notebook. I doodled comic strips in the margins of my school textbooks. I drew pictures of favorite characters from movies and cartoons.
And I wrote. Constantly.
When I wrote this book, I didn't do a dedication. What if I dedicated it to a dear family member, someone important to me, and the book was a flop? A failure? I don't want a pile of books that no one wants all dedicated to someone who believes in me. I'm just superstitious enough to believe that a great dedication might spell doom for my first ever published book. Think about the person who has supported you the most. Your mom, maybe. Or your spouse. Don't you want the book dedicated to them to be the bestseller?
I realize this is silly. I could dedicate every book I write to the same person until I get it right? Right? Still, I didn't do a dedication.
There is a filing cabinet at my parent's house filled with old notebooks full of a younger me's stories. Most of those stories are full of teen romance, love and angst, and, if I'm honest, more optimism than adult me can sometimes muster.
This book is dedicated to her. That young girl clutching a notebook full of half-written stories that never could have guessed how great life could really be. She's the one who believed in this. Adult me has just been trying to catch up.