I am iridescent with joy. I am pregnant with wonder. Gestating within me is the belief that regardless of how much I love the book, if Rainbow Rowell is writing it, I will absolutely love the people she fills it with. When my egg hatches, I will be gifted with the certainty that Rainbow Rowell is my new favorite author. Part of my effervescence, no doubt, is due to the long string of unhappiness in which I’ve enshrouded myself. The Girl on the Train, Cujo, The […]