It started with a dream. A nightmare, really.

One night in March I had trouble getting to sleep. Tired as I was, every moment of near slumber was snatched away from me by a jolt of adrenaline and racing, incoherent thoughts. My restless legs soon joined in, turning the day’s swan song into a dance as well. It was then that I reached for the medication and finally fell asleep.

When I awoke, it was from a vivid nightmare. I can’t tell you now what it was about, but at that moment I perceived it as an entire novel. I knew not only what had happened, but just how I felt about it too. It was as though it had actually happened to me.

I flew out of bed and began writing, skipping both the bathroom and my breakfast smoothie, the usual first steps to my morning routine. I wrote and wrote and am still writing. I see the whole story. I know the characters. I’m one of them.