louis-spector
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I don’t have a flair for words or understand the nuances of writing. It all seems convoluted and complicated to me. Of course, I came to it late in life. I didn’t learn to read until I was 14, writing came much later. It was believed I had some form of brain damage, or so
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Chapter One In mid-December 1971, a social worker named Mrs. Erickson drove my twin brother and me along the winding road of La Collina Drive in Beverly Hills, focused on one mission: finding us a home. At five, we’d already been through too many, but she swore this time was different. “This is the one,”
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—Chapter 1— The Christmas Kids In mid-December 1971, Mrs. Erickson, a social worker in her late forties, drove up the winding road of LaCollina Drive in Beverly Hills, focusing on one thing: securing a home for my brother and me. We were five-year-old foster twins with learning and behavioral challenges. Despite being bounced from place
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It’s been a long journey, but it’s almost at its end. I’m not referring to my life—hopefully, I have many more years ahead—but rather to my memoir, a project I started over 17 years ago. While I’ve scrapped earlier versions and started from scratch more than once, this version feels final. The only step left
Louis Spector 