I’m a store owner.

I purchased a square-shaped, spiral notebook when I was 14, maybe 15. It’s about 7 inches on each side, 1” thick with a faded navy cover that has designs on it similar to the ones created by an old toy I used to have that held a pen still while a paper turned below it on a little wonky, Lazy-Susan.

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We finished.

Amid an August full moon night, I lay alone on the couch, eyes fixed wide to the ceiling in fear. Sleep wasn’t interested. My hand bounced, powered by the unwelcomed adrenalin that coursed through my veins. We’d just sold the book, and now, we had to finish. Finish. Finish. Just finish. I’ve finished things in my life – college, culinary school, relationships, leases, jobs, projects . . . why was this so raw and different? Why did I feel that it might literally kill me?

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