So what’s it like reading my own book?

I had to read it like it was a real book. When I was writing it, I was looking for places to rewrite, chapters to move or to add.

At first it was like I was reading someone else’s story but that didn’t last as long as I would have hoped.

It’s very surreal and it did rekindle the grief and made me pine for the days when Charles was a toddler and things were simpler. That’s kind of odd for a forward thinking person like myself. I’m not one for wanting things to be like the old days.

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