I'm thinking about writing a book

Here's the synopsis:

Present day. A humanoid community struggles to survive despite crippling disabilities which affect 3/4 of the population. The protagonist, one of the community leaders, works to communicate in a way that reaches everyone. Hijinks ensue, some yet-to-be-determined crisis happens, and everyone lives happily ever after as soon as the community disbands and leaves the protagonist to live out her life alone (maybe with her husband) as a hermit (couple?) in the woods.

Here's an excerpt from Daltonland:

Among other things, [community leader] needed to let everyone know how important it was to take care of the community garden. She knew telling them outright wouldn't work, but she dreamed of being able to simply say, "Please water the garden every day when it's hot. If you don't, the plants will die." She could never say that, because of the strange disorder that afflicted most of the people so that they only heard every other word that was spoken. If she did say that, they'd hear something like, "Please the every when hot." Left to decipher that kind of cryptic statement, they'd most likely just eat every popsicle in the fridge instead of watering the garden.

Then again, there were hazards involved in making her sentences too long. Simply adding superfluous words in between the important ones wouldn't work either, since the remaining members of the community could only hear the first three words of every sentence. Some days she really wanted to quit. If only that were in her nature. She prepared two speeches.

One she needed to give every day, at least four times: Water. Garden. Now.

The second required less time, but a little more creativity: Please pour water on the outside garden at least every dang day if and when the weather is hot. If you you you don't water, the vegetable garden plants outside will certainly die.

As long as she went out to the garden herself daily, recoiled the hose, replanted all the plants that had newly-exposed roots or had been trampled, put the watering can away, did all the weeding herself, and swept up the mud that was tracked inside, it just might work.

If you, the reader, get to the end of the book without tearing any pages out or begging to be committed to the psych ward, you'll have a little glimpse of what it's like to be me. Actually, even if you do do those other things, you'll still have a little glimpse of what it's like to be me.