Using the creative license fiction affords, I rearranged the north Florida map, creating, among other things, a county that does not exist. Whenever the book was served by doing so, I moved highways and landmarks.
Writing is a courageous act committed by obsessed souls. Joy Harris and Deb Futter saw me through the process with wit, tenacity, and deeply appreciated honesty. My husband, Bill Hinson, brought me hot tea, rubbed my feet, tended my fears, checked facts, provided data, and never doubted. Michael McNally rebuilt my foundation metaphorically and otherwise. Rane Arroyo perceived in the first fifty pages the final three hundred. Mike and Zilpha Underwood offered sage and timely advice in addition to good cheer. Jerry Wayne Duncan reinforced my research and suggested roads not traveled. Baby Jalen taught me through the eyes of a child what pure joy truly is, inspiring Heart Archer to rise through the muse’s murky depths. Olga-Villada Barnes’s transcendent love for her husband, Al, even in his passing, helped shape her namesake’s passion. Peter Ripley provided ballast, insight, and Mexican food that fueled the journey. Dianne Choie, Adam Reed, and Sarah Twombly meticulously guided me through the must-do’s. My writing students stirred up tiny dust devils full of miracles. Deidre, Phil, and Sean were there whenever I needed to feel solid earth beneath my feet. To all these people and their many gifts, and because they helped Clarissa fly, I am forever grateful.