It’s 10:19 a.m., the sunny Thursday morning is starting to heat up, and I’m lying facedown in a dew-drenched field. Literally. My chin is resting in the grass, and dew is soaking the rest of my outfit. And I’m thinking one thing.
I didn’t sign up for this.
Because writing is supposed to be fun and cozy and safe, right? You write a charming book, polish it up a bit, and poof! send it off to the world of readers who—of course—obsess over it and buy it in droves.
But you’re probably wondering why I’m lying in a field getting grass stains on my pants. Trust me. I can explain.