She Was Sitting In My Front-Row Seat Holding My Novel — Smiling Like She Had Stolen My Life

audience, and this stage.

Aurelia Wren.

The name had begun as a shield.

Aurelia, for the gold leaf my mother pressed into old book covers.

Wren, for the tiny bird that built nests inside impossible places.

I had written after midnight while Graham slept.

I had written in guest rooms, locked bathrooms, airport lounges, and the back seat of cars while he took continue reading …