So I went out of town this weekend to a friend's birthday vacation. A dozen of us met up at a lakefront house about 3 1/2 hours from town. To get there you drive over mountain passes and along canyons and around sunset the scenery is particularly breathtaking. And yet, the more people commented on how amazing it all was, the less I felt. I got that it was pretty, and the trees and water and clouds and skies pleased me. But--I felt nothing. And I felt that my friends felt something, a kind of happy appreciation in their guts.
Realizing this made me feel alien. I thought about it a lot.
Other things give me that happy gut appreciation--all of us laughing together at dumb jokes, or seeing a foursome's fanatical concentration at the foosball table. But that exuberant appreciation of nature, looking up in awe and exclaiming at the stars?
I felt nothing, and I felt very much alone in knowing this.
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...