Sometimes I wonder where it comes from this fascination for old houses. Seems like I can't pass one without shooting a photo or making up a dream of days gone.
I remember as a girl I made up a full story of a family living in a house very much like the one on the photo. Father, mother, girl, baby boy, grandpa. Even today I remember what the girl looked like. For several years my dream was to write a book about the girl, but the words only lived their lives in my mind, never finding their way through the pen down on paper.
I have my first manuscript written and sent to the publisher. Now new words are finding their way to my imagination, new ideas are flowing. I love this prosess. The hard work of writing sentences down, organising them, make them showable for readers haven't started. Words live their own life, filled with life and love.
I wonder what I find if I open their doors and walk into their rooms.
