This is the story of me and my children building our house. I have changed the names of most others in the account and I have chosen to omit some of those who were present for privacy or narrative reasons. I’ve also reordered some events.
Building a book is every bit as tough as building a house. Thanks to those below and the rest of you who tied on tool belts, laptops, or just tied one on in the name of helping me reach the end—which turned out to be the beginning.
Thank you:
My late brother, John Puttkammer, who wanted to but couldn’t. Darlene, whose e-mail encouraged beyond the call of duty. Kei and Dorian, for whom I’ll always have mom hugs. Scott and Aidan, who are part of Inkwell’s spirit. My grandparents, who would have said I was nuts and the aunts, uncles, and cousins who went ahead and said it.
My agent, Jessica, who made me dig deeper and my editor, Rose, who indulged me when I needed to laugh, even when I wasn’t funny. And St. Martin’s Press, for believing.
Early readers: Sean, Don, Darryl, Jim, and Phil. Jason, who listened when I failed and when I succeeded. Daniel, who lit a match and David, who encouraged, shared, supported, and was generally his amazing writer self.
Hershey, Peek-a-boo, and Inkwell Manor, my best buds when humans were too much or too little.
And to Hope, Drew, Jada, and Roman. If knowing you really can do absolutely anything brings you future grief, I’m sorry, but it was worth it.