journalist, novelist, writer
🔗 Read on Wikipedia1981
I knew that my dollhouse was a toy, but in a way, it seemed more like a portal to adulthood. I didn't play with it the way I might with my Barbie dream house. Instead, I furnished it. I kept it pristine. I decorated the house for each season. I had jack-o'-lanterns in the fall and a Christmas tree with working lights in the winter.
When you write fiction, you're like a bird making a nest. You remember every little story ever told you. It's funny how things come back to you.
When you write fiction, you're like a bird making a nest. You remember every little story ever told you. It's funny how things come back to you.
For my seventh birthday, my parents gave me a plain, unfinished wooden dollhouse. It had six empty rooms, two floors, a staircase, and a door that swung out onto a little front stoop. The windows opened, and the roof retracted on one side, revealing an attic.
When you write fiction, you're like a bird making a nest. You remember every little story ever told you. It's funny how things come back to you.
When you write fiction, you're like a bird making a nest. You remember every little story ever told you. It's funny how things come back to you.
How could a person have and do all these stupid things--clip coupons and double lock the front door--and then one day just cease to exist?
Every St. Patrick's Day in my hometown is such a huge thing. You know, it was like Christmas, but in green.