It was a Victorian with stained glass windows and a historic marker on the door. It had glass chandeliers, vintage details, and a small brick patio with a running fountain. You could walk to the coffee shop and St. John’s Church where Edgar Allan Poe’s mother was buried and a park that looked over the river that gave the city its name.
It was over 150 years old.
It was a good house for writers. My study was in the front parlor. His was the top parlor. We both scurried to our little desks in the mornings and sometimes in the evenings, after our jobs, him on the second floor and me below.
I bought the house for the neighborhood, first and foremost, then for the study and the garden. Even though I can’t garden. I just wanted to sit in it and drink something when I wasn’t writing.
I don’t know how to tell you everything. There is so much. What to focus on? I have no clue. So here are a bunch of pictures instead.
A lot of good things happened in that house.
We got engaged – that same afternoon that we moved in. I finished Whores on the Hill . I landed an agent who sold it.
We got married. And once we were married, something I put off and fought for a long, long time which I wrote about in Altared, I thought: Well, now we’ve done it. We might as well have a baby.
And then, of course, everything changed. Although I didn’t know it at the time.