The Marked Son (Keepers of Life) (33 page)

Acknowledgements

I was told, all good authors acknowledge those who have helped them achieve their dream of publication. (Okay I was threatened by one of my critique partners, who will remain nameless, but she’s an accountant and she can seriously mess up my finances if I don’t do this right.)

To my family: I’m blessed. Blessed to have a loving, overly affectionate family who spoils me rotten by letting me do something so impractical like believe I can actually write a book and get it published and people will buy it. To Roberto: Thank you for working hard so I can live my dream. Have I mentioned you’re crazy, but totally adorable? Thank you, sweetie for everything. To Brenna, Lauren, Mara, Rachel and Emma: You, my beautiful, amazing girls are equally insane. Thank you for always making time to play make-believe with me, which I know is sometimes totally weird, but I’m still thankful. Oh yeah, stop telling your friends you are motherless and that the woman talking to herself while she’s folding laundry is the “help.” (yeah, like we can afford a maid.)

To my critique partners (Tammy Baumann, Louise “the accountant” Bergin, and Robin Perini): I seriously have the awesomest critique partners ever! Really. You’re my bestest buddies in the whole wide world. You contain the monster that is me by slapping my hand and telling me, “No more adjectives. Bad author.” (I love adjectives.) You cannot hide from the massive squeeze I’m going to give each of you. I love it that we’re loud, we’re argumentative and we’re a force to be reckoned with. I will NOT trade any of you for anyone else, and to those who want to steal you away…you are mine. Only mine. Muahahahaha!

To my agent (Laurie McLean): I’m amazed you never got tired of pitching my ideas to editors. You are one fearless woman, and I’m very grateful you offered me representation. You were my first fan, ‘cause seriously, my family doesn’t count and my critique partners have to like me or I’ll hit them, so without threat of violence, or starvation and piles of unwashed laundry, you actually liked my stories enough to push them at the right people. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!!

To my publisher (Liz Pelletier): You know, sometimes it takes fresh eyes to see the possibility of what can be. I don’t know what you saw in
The Marked Son,
but I’m so very thankful you saw whatever it was that you saw. (yep, that sentence is eloquence in motion.) Your faith in me is humbling and slightly scary, but I’m always up for a challenge.

To my editor (Heather Howland): You have been one of my biggest fans and have pushed me to reach into my story and pull out something special. It was painful and eye-opening and…oh my gosh! You’re gonna make me do it two more times aren’t you?! Crap! (grin) S’okay. You made
The Marked Son
a better story, and for that, I’ll always love ya.

To my publicist (Danielle Barclay): You are a publicist extraordinaire. You’ve worked tirelessly to get a buzz going about my book, and you’ve held my hand through the maze of self-promotion, (which I hate with a passion of a thousand burning suns), but like you said, it’s got to be done. (Umm, excuse me, but why do I have to do it?)

Honestly, the whole Entangled Publishing team is so amazing, I keep pinching myself wondering when I’m going to wake up, and praying I never do.

To my parents: Thanks for understanding that I couldn’t play when you came out to visit until I got my edits done. And thanks for having my back when I refused to come out of the playhouse at kindergarten. I didn’t need no stinkin’ friends in that playhouse with me. I had all the friends I needed in my head. You understood that. Even though I’m grown, I’m that same five-year-old girl. I’m pretty sure you still get that.

To my kickboxing boys (Logan Sims, Mitch Herig and Reece Killebrew): Thank you for keeping my body from curling permanently into a fetal position. You are experts at kicking my hinny (giggle, snort. I said hinny), and I love you guys for it.

To my friends: Thank you for keeping me sane. (These are real friends, not the ones in my head. I swear. I have real friends.)

To God: Thank you for the imagination overload. You are constantly in my thoughts when I write.

And last but not least, to my neighbors: Thank you for not calling the cops on me and my family. I know we’re loud and out-of-control, but we don’t mean you any harm. Really.

The Marked Son