When I arrived in Good Hart, the leaves were all yellow and marigold, crimson and ochre. In the time I’ve been here, the leaves have fallen, but somehow Good Hart remains just as beautiful in its winter hues.
Perhaps one of the most difficult things about writing – and I’m sure about any art form – is that so much of the labor of it is conducted alone, often with little encouragement, nor any promise of success. Your willingness to invest in my novel, to grant the time and the space necessary to write it is the truest form of encouragement anyone can offer.’
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