Daisy Lockhart is a searcher. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Burdened with an unlikely name by her father, a preeminent Henry James scholar, Daisy is a tightly wound grad student on her way to fulfilling the American dream. When her boyfriend breaks up with her, though, Daisy succumbs to the vertigo of uncertainty for the first time in a scripted life.
Embracing the plunge, Daisy flees. Her namesake chose Rome; Daisy Lockhart settles on the celestial city: Paris.
There, Daisy finds …
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I wrote my first story while I was in medical school.
Buried by exams and gross anatomy during my second semester, and unable to shake the cloud of formaldehyde that hung over me, I sought solace in that other half of my brain. The neglected half. It’s no wonder that my first story’s title would be “A Season For Dreams.” I was sorely lacking in them. But storytelling was a new experience for me, and it was hard. Not pathophysiology hard, no. But a different kind of hard. I was exercising muscles that had atrophied since the imaginative ballets we all stage in childhood. And I took tentative, baby steps at first. But I finished the story, and I enjoyed the process. The immersion. It breathed new life into my tired hours.
Then I put the thing aside, and forgot all about it. After all, writing was something other people did. It was something my fiancé, Paul, did. Me?
I was a reader.
And, as it turns out, I was something else. I was not a doctor. I quit medical school after one year, …
