Someone asked me why I wrote a book and what the process was like.
And that is, like, a really difficult question. It has taken me a long time to even begin to formulate an answer.
When I was in college (which was, astonishingly to me, fifteen years ago), I happened upon an anthology of kinky stories in a locked and dusty cabinet at a book consignment shop near campus. Of course, I immediately had to have it. I chose to ignore the snarky, questioning look the clerk gave me when I asked for it.
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