Out of childhood experience come some amazing things. I remember doing the dishes with my mother. She washed, I dried, and we sang. Old songs — “White Coral Bells” as a round, “Down in the Valley.”
That experience today metamorphosed itself into something strange and sad in the story, and into a scene that surprised me. We all have our ghosts, and some of mine today came sliding across the pages, leaving me wisful for days gone but not forgotten.
This is a very odd book I’m writing.
