In a mid-sized American city, you walk into this house, built in 1916, refurbished by an owner with modest means.  He's probably still paying the mortgage.  The nicest furnishings were probably heirlooms, or maybe estate sale finds, because the purchased pieces are over ten years old, and they weren't high-end when they were new.  Poking around, you find some original artwork on the walls, done by a relative.  There are speakers in every room, hooked into one sound system.  There are de rigeur pictures of kids, a girl and a boy over the mantle.  In the front closet, a shoulderbag, mostly empty, but further inspection finds a book and a couple of copied articles on elementary education.

Someone has picked up recently, but there are books and magazines stashed everywhere you look, under side tables, in between cereal boxes in the kitchen. Speaking of stashed books, are those weathered copies of Dungeons and Dragons books and a box of miniatures?

There is a room with a piano and a guitar--wait, two guitars.  One is undersized.

This is my home, the home I've lived in for over ten years with my little family.  Welcome.  Can I get you anything?  Do you mind if I put on a little music?

We are adding on to this great old house with this room, a room for my writing.  (The original room for that got turned, instead, into my wife's closet.)  You are welcome to stop by here anytime.

Right now, the big project around here is my epic fantasy, Dead in Shadow, the first installment of what I hope will be a long adventure of discovery.

Michael Howard Milliman (author)