the-gingerbread-house

  • 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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  • The Gingerbread House

    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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  • I know it may seem like my book will never be finished, but I assure you—it will be. Like a fine wine, it takes time. Each rewrite brings me closer to a finished, publishable book.  Rewriting isn’t just a step in the process; it is the process.  Every revision strengthens the story, sharpens the writing,

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