
Drawing on memories in my fiction
When I walk into our basement at a certain time of the morning on a sunny day, I am swept back in time to when my two youngest sons were growing up. It’s the light streaming through those carrot-colored curtains. The whole room is washed in vivid orange. I can almost hear my sons’ voices as they play with their train set or rehearse for a show on the downstairs stage their dad built them. The cacophony of drums, guitar and keyboard comes rushing back to me. Sometimes, I stand