Even though by temperament I'm mercurial, I try not to reveal that side of me too often in print. Why? I guess because I don't like pollyannas, whining wears me out in a jiffy, and honestly, I haven't really learned to talk about myself at that level. Baring my soul makes me uncomfortable, the way you feel sitting in a doctor's exam room waiting for a shot.
So anyway life feels hard right now. Resistant. Impenetrable. I can't get the traction I want with my writing. Work is marginally okay. Personal life is in the crapper. The people I want to see are busy and the people I don't want to see won't leave me alone. The damn dog won't quit scratching.
This picture reminds me that I'm best off focusing on the things that bring me pleasure. Street art, for one. Bold, naive, even slightly defaced, but still pretty cool.
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...