I walk past this house almost every day in the summer and it always reminds me of one of my favorite books, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I desperately want a young person to peak her head out the window and tell me a story. I think she would be a little lonely and a dreamer, the kind of girl that I love to write about. Maybe her parents are far away and she’s been sent to the island of Martha’s Vineyard for the summer to live with her grandmother who wears a chunky pearl necklace and never leaves the house without a whicker basket that she makes the girl carry when it gets heavy? The girl hates the whicker basket because it scratches against her bare legs. Or maybe she’s supposed to be out playing tennis but she’s hiding because she hates tennis and would rather be inside drawing? Maybe she would tell me some lies about her life before she finally confessed the truth? We all have secrets, and one of my favorite parts of being a writer is uncovering them.