My first memoir was fluffy. About how I bother celebrities and how lucky I am not to have had restraining orders taken out on me. It features my sister, who knew or dated most of them. My second memoir features my mother, who headed towards dementia in a Paris hospital at the end of 2014 and how I took care of her. I ended up drinking a bottle of red wine a night for four wintery French months. What stress?
My third memoir is the one people will either embrace or loathe as it's about my paranormal life. It features all the dead people who have visited me beginning in 1978: my Russian grandfather, my Dad's fourth wife, my dog, an ex-boyfriend's wife, my Dad, and finally my French stepfather. These ghosts have followed me from NY to Reno and Vegas, to Florida, to LA and finally to Paris. Maybe I should call it my peripatetic ghosts?