When I wrote my first novel, the thought of “research” never crossed my mind. I assumed the entire story would revolve around what I already know. Heck, I’m on the back side of the downhill run, so I’ve been through a lot in my days, and have quite an extensive file cabinet full of “expertise”. Right?
At the time it was given to me, I had no idea it would become a piece of me I couldn’t bear to part with. Shredded cuffs are beyond repair and no longer fit around my wrists properly, and moths have surely been nibbling the neck. Key elements of letters across the front are missing and once a deep heather gray, ghosts are less transparent than it is. Once a sturdy sweatshirt that kept me warm into the wee hours writing, it is now a fading remnant of what once was.