I’ve spent the past several months living inside a building that doesn’t exist.
At least not the way I’m writing it.
It’s an apartment building in Cincinnati, populated by bricklayers, widows, schoolteachers, bakers, artists, maintenance workers, immigrants, flood survivors, and countless ordinary people whose names never appeared in history books.
And yet, the more time I spend with them, the more convinced I become that their stories matter.
Perhaps even more than the famous ones.
The novel I’m currently working on is called The Collector.

At its heart, it asks a simple question:
What survives after we’re gone?
A photograph?
A letter?
A favorite recipe?
A journal?
A building that remembers the people who once lived inside it?
As I’ve written, I’ve been surprised by how often the story returns to the same idea:
Most people believe their lives are ordinary.
But ordinary does not mean unimportant.
In fact, the people history forgets may be the very people worth remembering most.
I’m not ready to share many details yet.
The mysteries are still unfolding.
But I can tell you this:
The story begins with a young immigrant bricklayer in the 1850s and stretches across generations of lives connected by a single Cincinnati apartment building.
And somewhere within those walls lives a question that refuses to go away:
Who remembers the people no one else remembers?
More soon.
For now, I’m heading back into the past.
The characters are waiting.



























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