myrrhmyrrh

As I slowly conjure forth my novel, between two short stories, here is where I’ll slip thoughts on subjects dear to me The scene, dear reader, is on the outskirts of Paris, in a town called Fountain- under-the-Wood, Rosebud Square (no, really), in the shadow of a medieval castle. Moving closer, you must imagine now the last of six storeys of a 1907 building, miller’s stone façade, under the attic, in the confines of 16 square meters (172 square feet). Here I live with my husband. Our books scale the paint-chipped heights of our blush walls. It has been called a doll’s house, Snow White’s cottage, and Ali Baba’s cavern. This where I invite you in for a lavender tea or a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé, indeed a rocococktail, and begin to talk authors and the long ago past and “whatsoever else our hearts desire”