Growing up, the written word was a place of solace for me. Even before I began losing my hearing I was a shy little weirdo who felt better escaping into someone else’s brain than being in mine. Later, after my mom encouraged me to start journaling (and I stopped fighting the idea out of spite), being able to pour out my secret thoughts and organize my deepest confusions on paper was like discovering a superpower.

As my hearing faded, books were a lifeline—I read to keep up with my classmates and teachers when their voices were were no longer reliable, to look busy instead of lonely.

All the way up through finishing my first book, writing remained a refuge for me. Then the writing finished and the publishing began, and with that a cornucopia of new anxieties.