On September 15, 2026, almost exactly a century after F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald spent a season on the French Riviera, I ordered a Great Gatsby at the bar of their former home. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. The cocktail arrived in a large glass beaded with condensation, pale gold and effervescent, crowded …
Continue reading A Rich Life: F. Scott Fitzgerald, the French Riviera, and the Things that Matter
There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you.― Beatrix Potter It happened again last night. Around four in the morning, in that porous hour where the mind has loosened its grip, I woke to find my mother sitting at the end of my …
Spinster. Cat lady. Old maid. The holy trinity of feminine failure, or so the culture once whispered. These words floated somewhere in my unconscious on the eve of my fifty-fifth birthday, like ghosts from another century still rattling their teacups. I was in the Lake District for the Romantics, not romance. For William Wordsworth, poet …
It began the morning after I clicked publish. A twisting deep under my ribs, a sudden surge of pain so sharp it made me bend in half. The ultrasound and blood tests that followed turned up nothing, but I knew what it was. Not a gallbladder flare or random spasm, but something older, something energetic. …
Continue reading The Power Within: Pilgrimage to the Brontë Parsonage
The grandfather clock in the entryway of James Herriot’s home kept time. Tick, tick, tick - as if nothing had changed. The sound filled the narrow hall, brushing against the faint smell of wool coats and polish. Light from a small window pooled on the patterned floor tiles, catching a thread of red from the …
Miss Austen’s merits have long been established beyond question; she is, emphatically, the novelist of home.- Richard Bentley, 1833 I stared at the home across the street, longing to go inside. Not even the clinking china and low hum of English voices could distract me from the house beyond the hedgerow. Through the Tudor teahouse …
The hours I have spent in cafes are the only ones I call living, apart from writing - Anais Nin The rain started to pitter patter just as we ducked into Café Le Prince Racine, a charming little nook tucked behind the Luxembourg Gardens at 22 rue Monsieur Le Prince. 22 had serendipitously followed me …
“I created this bookstore like a man would write a novel, building each room like a chapter, and I like people to open the door the way they open a book, a book that leads into a magic world in their imaginations.” George Whitman That mustard yellow sign, sage green door, and Shakespeare picture welcomed …
I blame Victor Hugo. He is the reason for thousands of dollars spent, absence at family reunions, wear and tear of jet lag, and a penchant for daydreaming at work. He is the reason I adore Paris so much. My love affair began in the pages of Les Miserables, that 19th century Romantic novel of …
If I had known Balzac was going to cause me this much trouble, I would not have bothered. Maybe this was payback for all the crude jokes I had made at his name’s expense. After a 45 minute metro ride to the sleepy 16th arrondissement in a sweltering 108 degree heat with a screaming sore …
