Hannah Johnson lives in Alaska, where she likes to watch lots of Netflix and write essays about how Jane Eyre and Bertha Mason should be best friends. Her books and stories usually involve inordinate amounts of whimsy, at least a little magic (or yarn), and lots of dorky heartfelt conversations. She has a master’s degree in English and a fairly eclectic sock collection. Sometimes those socks have old fashioned bicycles on them, or pigs, or pink ghosts. She is exceedingly awkward at writing about herself in third person.