Monday, November 21, 2011


I had a dream.

No, really. Eleven months ago, I woke up on a cold January morning at about 4:30am and transcribed the scenes from a trio of dreams I had. I didn't stop writing until 11pm through that day. Fortunately, it was a weekend.

I decided to try to write 1000 words a day. I almost succeeded, writing more some days, fewer others, and many days off. But the inspiration kept rolling in.

The muse said, "Hello dere," and I listened. Now I've submitted the final proofs, have to make yet another round of corrections, a few tweaks with the cover, and it'll be a book, out on December 2.

The book is set within a similar length of time, one year, albeit thirty-two years ago and in a fictional version of cities I either visited or lived in for a short period of time (actually, less than a year in Pittsburgh).

Where did it come from? I have lots of ideas and inspirations. It truly is a work of fiction. Yet as one of my favorite authors Chuck Palahniuk once said, in a sense, "Everything is autobiographical."

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