Are you a book reviewer?
Quinn had a special book, a book that had been with her since she was a teenager. This was the notebook that she kept all of her dream drawings in. Sometimes she would add words to the sketches and sometimes she wouldn’t. There were hundreds of drawings in this book, some the size of a quarter, and some – after a particular bad night of dreaming – took up an entire page of hard angry charcoal strokes.
That book was private, and Quinn kept it to herself. That was just for her. For so long she hadn’t been able to tell what was real and what was fantasy, thinking maybe she herself was just a figment of someone else’s imagination. Her sketchbook was Quinn’s way of knowing she was real. Maybe she had imagined seeing the things she saw, or knowing the things that she had forgotten, but she hadn’t fabricated drawing the pictures or writing the words. The pictures and words would always be there, permanently tattooed into the book. If she opened the pages and saw those things then she would know that in that very moment, she was present. She existed. She was.