A lucky writer friend found a very special gift. Read about it here:
Over the last five days, I have been utterly possessed by what could become a significant work-in-progress. Some of you, who have been following my blog for a while, will remember that I wrote a post about my mother being a writer. For years, as I was growing up, my mother was writing a book. My father worked the night shift at a lumber mill, and night after night we kids would be lulled to sleep by the clacking of my mom’s old Remington typewriter, complete with the ding of the bell to indicate she had come to the end of a line and then the crank-swish of the carriage return.
As I got older and curious about this book, my mom would dole out little bits and pieces of the story like Scheherazade in the Arabian Nights. The characters and the plot wove its way into my being, in…
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