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Preface

  Preface

  I don’t have as much time to read books or watch movies as I used to; that’s just how life goes with age. Honestly, I’ve always preferred songwriting or crafting short stories. But recently, I realized my mind is overflowing. My small brain can barely contain it all—it’s like I have a private cinema inside my head, constantly screening movies I’ve created myself. And I want to show off my theater. I want to share these stories, to let people see how exciting this imagination is. As I said, it has already far exceeded the "storage capacity" of my brain.

  Whenever I tell these stories to my friends, they all say the same thing: "Write a book." They tell me it’s the only way they can consume my imagination without having to wait for me to tell the stories in person when we're out drinking (though, you know, alcohol reduces your driving ability!). I’m not an alcoholic, mind you—it’s just the social life. My friends even suggested I make an E-book; maybe earn some extra income, and if I’m lucky, who knows? It might even become a real series or a movie someday.

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  I told them I have no foundation in writing at all. But they just said, "Write exactly how you tell the stories to us. Don't overthink it. If I can understand it, anyone can." (Laughs).

  I’ve been wanting to do this for years, since the COVID period. Back then, the stories were fragmented, disconnected. At one point, I almost gave up. I was working hard, had very little time, and even less rest. I left it alone for years until my old computer broke down. But when I bought a new one for work recently and started cleaning up the drives, I stumbled upon those old files.

  I sat down and read them again. "Hey! This is actually fun!" I thought. If I don't finish this, I won't be able to die in peace. So, I meditated, focusing on traveling back to when I first imagined this world, recalling how I had structured it. And man, it’s huge—just as I remembered. I can weave it all together into an entire "Universe."

  Now that I’ve started sharing these stories with my friends again, the demand has returned. "Don't worry about whether anyone will read it," one friend said. "At least the seven of us will definitely read it."

  "Okay, friends. This time, I’m doing it for real."

  Ruth Withee-Hin

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