They say you should write about what you know, so what better place to begin than the place I grew up? When Jackie, my partner of 34 years, suggested I write a book, I thought she was joking. Me? Write a book? I hadn't read enough to fill a tiny shelf, let alone considered writing one myself. The idea felt absurd, an impossible mountain to climb. Yet somewhere, her words awakened something deep inside me, a spark I didn’t even know was there—the seed of a storyteller.

 Now, this didn’t just happen in a flash. No sudden epiphany or lightning bolt of creativity. For weeks I found myself daydreaming, piecing together fragments of ideas before I found it—the story I wanted to tell. A beginning, a middle, and an end, all falling into place like a puzzle I didn’t even realize I was working on. And I’ve got to admit, once it clicked, a rush of excitement so overwhelming took over, I had to sit down and write, having no clue what kind of rollercoaster I was about to board.