The story of ELAINE OF CORBENIC wrote itself over the course of a few months one spring long ago. It was within a year of my arrival to the Bay Area. Its opening lines wrote themselves the sunlit afternoons as I climbed among the gorse covered hills of a green spring, my own young son in tow.  I remember working long hours during the nights of midsummer, with an urgency to bring it to completion lest anything happen to me. I was not facing a terminal illness, so don't ask me why the thought e...
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