spines

Here. It. Comes.

When I first held the completed, printed, real-book version of The Good Sister in my hands, I burst into tears, overwhelmed. In between the (may I say lovely) front and back covers are years of not only writing and editing, but years of life—beginning in 1993, when I first travelled to Mexico City, and on through 1999, when I lived in Baja. Those were the beginnings, but I did not know then I would write a novel. Add to that grad school and jobs and relationships and a whole lot of life changes, this book that isn’t about me oddly contains so much of my life. Then I thought of all the people, more than I can name, who contributed in one way or another to this book, to the stories within the book. Stories that go far beyond these pages.

And what pages they are! Soft and deckle-edged, smelling of new ink. I turned them, marveling that the book had pages. Then I freaked out over page numbers: My book has page numbers? Each sentence is affiliated with its own specific page number? This is amazing! I imagine this might be what it’s like for a mother to hold her newborn child, marveling at the fact of the baby’s toes and ears and nose.

So here it is—world, this is The Good Sister.

Good Sister, this is the world.

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