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Writing historical fiction: sometime journal of a New York City novelist

a snowy day in New York City

When I write, I go so deeply into the world of my imagination that sometimes I feel like a pale ghost in this one. You may picture me, a wisp of a woman floating with uncombed hair through the branches of our Christmas tree, making the hanging stars and angels stir slightly as I pass. Snow is falling outside. I need to close my writing file and remember that there are many things to be done in this world before Christmas!

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