In the hushed hours following my dog’s death, I knew I had to get out of the house. The house felt too full like there were ghosts in it, creeping around and sucking in the air before I could. If I closed my eyes, I swore I could hear them breathe. Their voices were always in my head, whispering around and filling it. I’d once told my parents about that… about the voices that spoke in my head. I was a little girl when I told them that. I’m not a little girl anymore.
I did that. I wrote that story. I made that. I'm magic, and it's alive. The wonderful thing about being a writer is that tomorrow... I'll do it again.