I became a writer in this house. My sister and I would walk to the Star Market (about a twenty minute walk) and buy notebooks and write novels in grade school. They were always about orphaned girls and their caretaker, who somehow was a millionaire, and they were set in schools, at the beach, or at camp, and we illustrated them. I wish I had saved these early novels, but when I got to be a teenage, they mortified me and I threw them out. All that remains are two pages from a notebook, that start out, "Hurry up!" said Martha, as she climbed into the car. "We're going to the Cape!"
As I got older, I kept writing. I made up books for book reports in junior high (and got As on the reports!), I refused to write an essay for the Kingsbury Temperance Essay Scholarship because I didn't believe in temperance, so I wrote a story that involved a squirrel (I'm serious) and a drunk. And I won $500! But by the time I was a teen, I was convinced the house was haunted, and all I wanted to do was leave.
My first novel, Meeting Rozzy Halfway, was set in this house. My 10th novel, The Missing One, which I am writing now, is set on this block. Maybe Thomas Wolfe was right, you can't go home again. But then again, maybe you never really leave.