The meteoric, gaseous, ridiculous Seattle housing market hit home for me literally, as my rent has gone up 30% in the past 2 years. With this most recent hike, I called it quits on my neighborhood and the greedy Scrooges who own my building, and found another place. There are pluses and minuses, I guess. The new place is small, which means I've spent the past few weeks sorting through storage boxes that have been tucked away in closets for six plus years.
I found letters dating from my parents' ugly and painful split.
A Max Headroom mask.
107 chocolate wrappers (*).
A tiny chunk of the Berlin wall.
Journals and more journals.
Scraps of stories starring my longtime-protagonist-yet-still-unpublished Eugenia Farquharson.
My mom's jewelry box, with her collection of watches and earrings and heart-shaped jewelry.
You can't keep everything, and yet it's hard to know what to let go of.
A metaphor for life, probably, and yet I still find myself debating myself: do I really need that feather boa? The collection of Pee Wee Herman art?
I'm not sure.
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...