In 2020, I began a book about the houses I’ve lived in, both fictional and real. A year and a half later, I finished that book, but the river of life caught hold and my narrative swirled into a new eddy: late-diagnosed autism. Now all the moments in all the houses make a different kind of sense. My book about houses has transformed into a memoir of finding my neurodivergent self. It’s currently in the hands of beta readers, and while resting from writing, I’m enjoying reading old versions of chapters that didn’t make the cut. I might have killed a lot of my darlings in pursuit of focus and clarity, but some still spark out and catch my attention:
Sharing My Darlings
Sharing My Darlings
Sharing My Darlings
In 2020, I began a book about the houses I’ve lived in, both fictional and real. A year and a half later, I finished that book, but the river of life caught hold and my narrative swirled into a new eddy: late-diagnosed autism. Now all the moments in all the houses make a different kind of sense. My book about houses has transformed into a memoir of finding my neurodivergent self. It’s currently in the hands of beta readers, and while resting from writing, I’m enjoying reading old versions of chapters that didn’t make the cut. I might have killed a lot of my darlings in pursuit of focus and clarity, but some still spark out and catch my attention: