Jean Stone

http://www.jeanstone.com

I never wanted to be anything but a writer. As a kid, while my older sister was burrowed under the covers reading Nancy Drew by flashlight, I was across the room, burrowed under my own blankets, making up stories. Once I carved a poem on the back of a Ouija board. My mother was not amused.

We had an ordinary life in West Springfield, MA. I had a grandfather who was an engineer on the railroad—resulting in my lifelong love of trains—and a grandmother who smelled of lavender. I had an uncle who smoked cigars and another who had big tattoos and another who wrote the date he bought...