A Matter of Serendipity
Today, I am reveling, writing in Edith Wharton’s house, The Mount. It’s quiet. I am sitting at a small table in front of a window in the room on the third floor that was Henry James’ bedroom. I knew I wanted to write from an early age but lacked the courage to pursue my dream. I was a born reader but that didn’t mean I could write. It’s not that easy.