For the first thirteen years after I moved into that dreary, old Victorian, I was lonely and fretful. As hard as I tried, I could not make enough money to both support my children and restore my mansion to its original splendor. The roof leaked, the sweeping porch was rotting.
Each night after the girls were tucked into their beds, I would find a cozy nook to play my accordion. Even my musical accomplishments hadn't improved. With ease, I could breeze through the first few pages of a piece, but the minute there was a more difficult passage, I froze. I had never really practiced going though those bars of notes that required more effort. Like always before, I gave up or went back to the beginning to play what I already knew quite well, creating a wider gap between both sections.
Then one night, my ghost appeared to me by coming through the wall. I told him I wished I could do that, not through the walls of my house, but the walls in my mind that discouraged me from being successful. He was tender and loving and when he was ready to leave me, he wrote one word on the very wall where he had appeared.
Persistence.
The rest is history you can find in the book,
once the manuscript is published.
