Evanston, Illinois: 1869 ‘I burst into the house. Keeping the flimsy telegram envelope, I dumped half a dozen packages into the maid’s waiting arms. “Where’s Father? I need to speak to him.” “He’s in the library Miss Lily. With Mr. Todaro.” Oh, bother. I didn’t have the time to deal with Emil Todaro, my father’s […]
I like to tell stories. It’s why I write. I write for myself first and for everyone else second. If I wasn’t entertained by what I had to say, I wouldn’t try to share it with anyone else.