If you asked, I'd say I hate talking about the weather. Looking back over my posts, though, that is clearly not true.
I think what I hate is complaining about the weather. I'm a rain-loving girl, so living in Seattle suits me just fine. A damp misty day puts me in a relaxed, contemplative frame of mind, perfect for a Cheever novel and hot chocolate at Bauhaus, or an early afternoon glass of bubbles anywhere that overlooks wet, greasy twilit city streets.
In Port Angeles this weekend I spent some time considering moss. We had a particularly cold, wet winter, and many rocks and trees and bushes are furred with crazy-looking varieties of lichen and moss. Shaggy layers of moss ride up slender tree trunks like slouchy socks. Two or three kinds of moss clump along the same branch, not competing but co-existing and friendly, like guys at a neighborhood bar. Hanks of the silvery-green stuff hang in fragile bearded tufts, and in the filtered mid-afternoon light, you well understand the mythic traditions that people the woods with ancient timber deities.
There's a shadow constantly hovering at my shoulder. For all my gallivanting into the social whirl, nevermind the positive social media...
Ever wondered what it takes to get a piece of fiction published? I'm not talking New Yorker type of prose. That's a rarefied world ...
Check out my new video, a brief reading from a story published this past spring in Opossum.
Welp, after a half-year experiment in social media, BSP has returned to its blogger roots. I hated Faceborkland, tbh. Sure, it was easier t...