When a book has been over 25 years in the making, there are many, many people who have had a hand in it. I started writing it, oh… around 1987 or so, and between fits of furious scribbling and long stretches where it languished in a drawer, I scattered bits around to friends I could sucker into reading it. I read portions of it aloud to my students, some of whom were brave enough to perform a scene or two in public. I begged fellow writers to critique it; some were kind, some were not, rightly so. I even foisted manuscripts onto gracious clients who, astonishingly, agreed to read the draft of a novel written, by all people, their financial advisor. They didn’t even ask what I thought I was doing. Many went to the trouble to edit portions, and one even offered to serve as an agent for me. I asked my husband to read draft after draft and always felt a thrill when I caught him laughing or tearing up. What I discovered during this long process was not that I had the makings of a great novel, but that I have wonderful, caring, intuitive friends and loved ones who are willing to do far more for me than I deserve.
All this is in the way of thanking those of you who were a part of my life during this process, which did not seem so terribly long at all. We all were just living and creating and sharing and loving, and somehow, in all this jumble of goodness, this novel came into being. I am grateful to you all, and you all know who you are.
But I owe a big and specific thank you to my editor, Elizabeth Turnbull, who actually became enthusiastic about the story and made me finish it, made me rewrite it, and made me do things I never wanted to do. Thanks to her, her constant encouragement, and her hard work, this sloppy piece of fiction was whipped into shape until it became something I am proud to put my name on.