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I never thought so much would happen to that quirky little novel I was working on a few years back.

I mean Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, of course.

I had high hopes for my first novel, which maxxed out at more than a few thousand people buying it, not racking up too many scathing reviews, and being afforded the opportunity to write another one. But a funny thing happened on the way to the remainders bin, and the superlatives Miss Peregrine has racked up since it was published just over a year ago seem so absurdly overblown when compared to my modest expectations that I'm almost embarrassed to list them. (Almost.)

The book debuted on the bestseller list, hit number one a few times, and has yet to be dislodged, 53 weeks and counting later. 20th Century Fox optioned the film rights and Tim Burton -- Tim effing Burton -- said he wants to direct it. I didn't get so many scathing reviews after all, and even several nice ones, in papers that aren't published in my hometown, which my relatives still clip out and mail to me when they appear. I've toured the country doing readings.

Best, most astoundingly of all, are the emails and letters I get from readers. I'm knee-deep in writing the sequel to the book right now, and it seems like whenever I have a tough day of it (they happen now and then) I get a sweet, encouraging email from someone I've never met, saying how much they liked the book and that they can't wait for the next one, and all my enthusiasm comes rushing back.

So thanks, everyone, for helping to make this one of the most unexpected and amazing years of my life. You've made me a happy mutant.

Now -- back to the keyboard! Whip noise!