For the little girl who wished she could, was told she couldn’t, then did it anyway.

That is the dedication on the first page of The Toy Maker, my first novel to be published. Ever since I was a little girl all I wanted was to be a writer. I wanted to write something amazing, something that enthralled me the way the first book I was ever inspired by did. Ever since I read the first Harry Potter book at eight years old, I was amazed that a person could imagine up a whole world of magic and stories like that and paint such pictures with words. Since then, I have always wanted to write and publish a novel.

Fast forward to a girl scared of wanting something that she couldn’t have. Fast forward to a girl who learned that any reaction was followed by tormenting reaction. Fast forward to a girl who learned to mask so well that even she couldn’t even tell when she was doing it anymore. Fast forward to a girl who thought having hopes and dreams meant you had weaknesses that a tormentor could exploit.

Things weren’t easy. They weren’t like the sunshine, rainbows and unicorns I read about as a child, they were more like the trauma and horror I write about as an adult. Well, they do say write what you know or something along those lines. I always struggle to finish a written work, no matter the length, but novels especially. I get bored with the idea and lose interest entirely or get irritated with it and get stuck and can just never seem to push past that stuck position. I’ve finished lots of short fiction but novels always alluded me until The Toy Maker. I have so many have finished novels sitting on my computer that may or may not see the light of day, but I could never seem to finish a long project. I always wondered what was wrong with me? Why was I failing to do the one thing I’d wanted to do since I was little but, I couldn’t let myself hope to do because of fear of disappointment?

It was only after 28 years of struggling, two university degrees, 12 months of harassment and discrimination, getting a concussion that caused daily migraines and a whole lot of pain and stress to accommodate the differences in my own brain that I was finally diagnosed with ADHD. It might have helped that I ended up in a hyper focus spree the month before and wrote the first draft of The Toy Maker in 30 days, pretty big red flag right there. (PSA: please note concussions do not cause ADHD, it just led to me getting diagnosed.)

Fast forward to a woman with success but learned not to trust from a young age. Fast forward to a woman who would rather rely on a service dog than a person for assistance because animals don’t have ulterior motives. Fast forward to a woman who is still recovering.

So it might be strange to dedicate a book like this but I don’t care… because she deserves it, because she didn’t do anything wrong. All she did was survive.