I still remember holding the first printed copy of my book and feeling two things at once: pride so sharp it almost hurt, and terror that someone might actually read it. For years, the book had lived in private. It was a file on my computer, a stack of marked-up pages, a notebook stuffed with scenes, questions, and sentences I could not let go of. Then, almost suddenly, it became an object. It had a cover. It had pages. It had my name on it. That moment should have felt like

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