I began my writing day like any other, at three or four in the morning with a cup of reheated coffee.​ It's all about rewriting that first hour or so, not even really thinking about what I'm doing, sometimes forming the words on the paper like they're more drawings than letters, when my thoughts float around in my mind in mismatching bits. It was during this time, one morning like any other, when thoughts about the secret war and the high school and me losing my testosterone and what I want to write for the rest of my life all kind of came together. Within the hour, an outline for the first novel in the series formed in my imagination, and that was it. I was done.

     Good-bye, Adam Forwarder.

​     More to the point, Good-bye Dann O'Keefe. (I'm pretty sure that's going to be the title of this essay when I'm done.)

CONTINUE