I know I've barely touched this story in nearly four years, and I'm truly sorry to those of you who became invested in the story only to be disappointed; I know how that can feel. I've been spending quite a bit of time on other projects: I've had a few short stories published, I'm well on my way to completing a novel of historical-fiction that I hope will be published as well, I graduated from college, I married the love of my life, and I've founded a small editing and proofreading business. So, all in all, I guess it's no surprise that The Sands of Time fell through the cracks.

Last week was my wife's birthday. She's always loved fanfiction, and has at least pretended to love the stories I write. I guess I just had enough of this half-finished story looming over my head, so as a gift, I finished it for her. Not an easy task, mind you - it meant nearly fifteen chapters in only a month, but I did it! So here we are: The Sands of Time. Better late than never, I suppose.

Again, I am truly sorry for the delay, and I hope that you can still enjoy the adventure that awaits.

AUTHORS NOTE

The book has been a struggle for me. Not for the story, which to me seemed only half-conceived, or for the writing style, which bordered on irresponsibly shallow, but for the conflict this novel has had with my more serious writings. My aspirations reach far above the unfortunately low heights accessible by fanfiction, and as such, every word of this story, when given to paper, burned against my dreams of something greater. A waste of time is perhaps too harsh a phrase, but still it fought against my efforts to quiet the notion.

Time after time, I found myself returning to the story like an addict to the needle, only to push it away again. Something about the characters, many of which represent important people in my own life, drew me in. Or maybe it was the story, which contained a certain enticing beauty, even if it wasn't unwrapped to its full potential. Perhaps it was instead the gleam of joy I saw in my wife's eye at the receipt of each and every chapter. For the longest time, I pondered at the reason. Why? Why can I not set this story down?

It would taste a lie to pretend there was some sudden realization – an inspired revelation – that opened my eyes to the truth. In fact, looking back, I cannot truly remember when I first considered the possibility that it didn't matter why I continued to write the book. It called to me; the story came alive of its own accord, and sometimes I think that is enough.

I know this will never be widely read; I know the greatest appreciation of these pages will come from my wife; and truthfully, I would have it no other way. That is the sort of story this is: a fun tale and a bedtime adventure.