When my wife told me that we were pregnant, I decided to write a book both dedicated to and about my first child. I, obviously, couldn’t leave my second kid hanging, so I wrote one for her too. My wife recently told me that we are having a third. So, like one does, I started outlining my next book.
My hope is that–one day, after I die–my children, rooting around in the attic, will find three dusty and yellowed manuscripts lying behind a tasseled leg lamp and ask: “Hey, what are these stacks of crap?” After which, they’ll head downstairs, boil water for tea, and read their respective books. If they aren’t uncontrollably sobbing, then they’ll probably laugh and say: “What an idiot!” But they’ll remember, and I’ll know.
Here’s the first line to my next book, dedicated to the Nameless One.
“In the beginning, there were four. Though I was one, I was nameless. I remember nothing. Only light. And then a harsh, cold darkness.”
Interested in more? Look no further: Nim.