I wanted words because I’ve been taught that picture books are for kids, and I don’t feel like a kid anymore. I thought it would make me a book. I wanted to ink words on my body to be my preface; something that would draw people in so they would want to read me.
I wanted annotations; words that would marvel at or help explain me to the confused readers. I felt my body language was wrong, I felt I needed some editing. Some new text.
I figured the next day when I woke up I’d feel different. I’d be a book. Maybe I’d smell like paper, maybe people could read my different chapters, maybe I’d win an award and become a bestseller. Nope.