For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to write. I think this desire was born from my absolute love of reading. Makes sense, write? (see what I did there?).

My first book of obsession? “The Monster at the end of This Book” – a Seaseme Street production, staring loveable, furry, Grover.

I made (asked, begged, pleaded, cried until…) my dad read this book to me every night, for I think more than a year. This might be a made up legend in the Emery family, but it feels right and real to me. And, I DID love that book. I can still recite it almost word for word, page by page, without the book in front of me