Please welcome June’s guest video blogger, The Poet Gregory Pardone!
Guest Video Blog – The Poet Gregory Pardone
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Build A Story With Bryan #2 – Only One Week Left!
That’s right, only seven more days to build this story, but you’ve come in at an exciting time: a man recalls his meeting with an alluring but mysterious acquaintance, which may have been the cause of the strange and sinister events in his life that have transpired since.
The story so far:
While the record changed, he noticed his right hand moving independent of where his brain had told it to go, instead of adding ice to her drink it was reaching for the light switch that had appeared where one hadn’t been before. All he could see was the light switch case. There was not a switch to turn on or off. Yet as his hand came closer to the switchless case, the lights flickered like a strobe light in some old fashioned long forgotten disco hall. It was at that moment he could feel the hair on the back of his neck raise and the realization set in that he was not alone. He hoped that the outdated wiring in the abandoned warehouse he called home was on the fritz again, but it was hard to convince himself that it wasn’t something more sinister. Strange things like this had been happening to him ever since he’d met Seren Grossmann for a drink at Nando’s last Tuesday.
He put the ice in her bowl, filled it with water and set it down. Angela was there immediately. She was thirsty. He watched her, but his thoughts returned…to last Tuesday.
The heady combination of the scent of Nando’s piri-piri wafting from the kitchen, the rioja in his glass and Seren’s smoldering eyes nearly caused him to succumb to her charms, AGAIN! Why was it that he agreed to see her whenever she asked, despite what she’d done? He was only saved from her by the ringing of his mobile.
Hmm, a blocked number, he thought, and considered not answering, preferring to lose himself in those eyes.
“Did you bring it?” she asked with a purr, caressing her glass stem with the innuendo of an ambulance siren. “And if you did… how much do you want for it?” Her mouth was all business even if her eyes wore dance shoes.
“Yeah I brought it.”
What’s going to happen next? It’s in your hands…
Build A Story With Bryan #2 – The Story So Far
Photo by Ohiopetwatch
We’re off to a great start in this second round of Build A Story With Bryan! Can’t wait to see where it goes this week.
The tale so far:
While the record changed, he noticed his right hand moving independent of where his brain had told it to go, instead of adding ice to her drink it was reaching for the light switch that had appeared where one hadn’t been before.
All he could see was the light switch case. There was not a switch to turn on or off. Yet as his hand came closer to the switchless case, the lights flickered like a strobe light in some old fashioned long forgotten disco hall. It was at that moment he could feel the hair on the back of his neck raise and the realization set in that he was not alone.
He hoped that the outdated wiring in the abandoned warehouse he called home was on the fritz again, but it was hard to convince himself that it wasn’t something more sinister. Strange things like this had been happening to him ever since he’d met Seren Grossmann for a drink at Nando’s last Tuesday.
He put the ice in her bowl, filled it with water and set it down. Angela was there immediately. She was thirsty. He watched her, but his thoughts returned…to last Tuesday.
What happens next is up to you…
Build A Story With Bryan #2
Photo by Funpika
It’s Round 2 of Build A Story With Bryan, same idea as before. I’ll start us off with the opening sentence and then you add a sentence or two and take the story in any direction you see fit. Remember, it’s first come first written, so please continue off the last sentence added in the comments section. Thanks again for participating, here we go:
While the record changed, he noticed his right hand moving independent of where his brain had told it to go, instead of adding ice to her drink it was reaching for the light switch that had appeared where one hadn’t been before.
What’s going to happen next?
Build A Story With Bryan #1 – Hanley Spurl and the Ordinary Day
Thank you to everyone who offered up a title for this first round of Build A Story With Bryan! After mulling them over (and considering my own, “Whatever Happened To Brenda Duplicki?”) I’ve decided to go with Scott Ritchie’s entry, “Hanley Spurl and the Ordinary Day.” Congratulations Scott, a copy of this story tattooed on a cow hide should arrive at your door next week.
And once again, for your reading pleasure, here is the complete story.
For those who knew her, or thought they knew her, the sight of Brenda Duplicki sampling face creams at the beauty shop on Dexter two days after her death came as something of a surprise. More to the point, the Victorian frock she wore was unsettling, for age had muted its ebony folds to a dusty gray and the high white-lace color to a pestilent ocher. Suddenly, the crowd of onlookers was distracted by a high-pitched scream coming from the back of the shop.
Brenda ran out of the front door and disappeared in the crowd. But she accidentally left her purse on the beauty shop’s counter. Tossed from it, a sprawl of Turkish gold coins, an asthma inhaler and a shark’s tooth capped in silver. A passer-by, Hanley Spurl by name, idly studied the items on the countertop before his jaw dropped in astonishment. The silver-capped shark tooth was the last item the private investigator needed to find to confirm Brenda’s true identity as the notorious antiquities thief, Suzanne Zhuravlyova.
But was this the original silver-capped shark tooth or just another imposter, inconspicuously placed in the path of Hanley Spurl that would lead him on another anonymously concocted chase lasting 7.23 years? He removed the riding gloves he’d worn every day since losing the horse 6.76 years ago, and performed a pinching test on the shark tooth his mentor Sable Dakker had taught him back when they were working the aquarium murders together. The pinch test proved it to be the original; he took a puff from the asthma inhaler, and knew what he needed to do next. He had to find the woman he suspected was Suzanne Zhuravlyova and find out who she had given their child to all those years ago.
With a furtive glance in each direction, he scooped the contents back into the purse, tucked the whole affair next to the .45 in his jacket and slapped the gloves against his leg. He had only one hour to get back to Applebee’s. He paused, stricken by memories of their doomed relationship and the heartbreak he still felt. Or was it the lasagna? That was it. Hanley Spurl’s lifelong battle with lasagna was to blame. His eyes curled shut as did his fist to his chest. He didn’t see the danger approaching him because his eyes were firmly closed as he experienced a lasagna-induced agony.
There she was… Suzanne Zhuravlyova. Nobody but Hanley knew it was her because she changed yet again. This time she wore stirrup pants, a They Might Be Giants oversized T-shirt, and a cute stylish hat that complimented her eyes. And it was those eyes that said it all.
Hanley sensed her and spun, the gat already in his hand. He aimed it square between those hazel orbs and let the lead fly. It took her head into the next room for a chat and sent the other half of her crashing to the floor. But wait. Though the shark tooth was real, this Zhuravlyova was another fake, the third he’d dispatched since noon.
Hanley heard the familiar sound of police sirens in the distance, which is inevitable after a shooting spree in broad daylight, so he decided to leg it for the nearest Metro station. His heart sank when he reached the Metro stairs and saw the sign: “Closed for repairs.” And then, right when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, it started to rain. Which in turn soaked his white shirt that revealed the physique that he hadn’t paid attention to since 2004. He quickly hopped on the 189 bus southbound in hopes of evading capture. He never expected to be sitting next to Ted Koppel on a city bus!
Hanley began a quick study of this person next to him. But was it really THE Ted Koppel that Hanley had admired and dreamed of being with in an intimate setting since he was five years old? One telltale truth sign would confirm for Hanley if this was his Ted. Yes, by God, there it was the faint but distinctive body odor only Ted could exude and get away with. Hanley had a decision to make. What would he do?
Hanley walked to the front of the bus and addressed the driver in as secretive a tone as possible, requesting that he make an unscheduled stop three blocks up…right next to a manhole cover marked ‘Department of Raw Sewage.’ The bus driver snorted with derision and turned to Hanley with a scowl. This was the answer he had been looking for. Since it was apparent that he could not exit to the depths of the city he felt he deserved he had no other choice than to go public…and Ted Koppel was his avenue. Hanley swung his portly wet torso back onto the seat next to Ted’s hair. In person, it dwarfed the newsman, towering close to three feet off his skull, weighting the faulty neck into a constant compensation.
Ted barely turned the unwieldy thing to Hanley and spoke. “I’m better off than that jackass Ebert.”
Hanley wanted to laugh but was afraid of the pain it would trigger. He thought it was the heartburn, what he often imagined was an angry little man living in his stomach, a fire-breather, who when provoked spit a stream of flame up through Hanley’s chest, his esophagus, his throat. Hanley instead tried to smile but it came out as a wince. Ted looked disappointed he hadn’t earned an outright laugh, but Ted’s hair, the way it kindly undulated, seemed to appreciate the effort.
Hanley gazed out the bus window, pretending that the little man from his stomach was igniting the city trees they passed, and tried to remember the last time he’d smiled. Certainly it was before he’d killed the baker’s dozen of false Suzanne Zhuravlyovas, before what he thought was his child wrapped snugly inside a papoose was actually a bag of potatoes, before he’d unwittingly sold his horse to a glue factory magnate, before his life had been whittled down to as narrow a point as the tip of a silver-capped shark tooth.
He resolved, finally, to bury the tumultous exploits of his life deep within, and ride the bus until the end of the line, and wherever it stopped he would start anew. Gone would be Hanley Spurl the private detective, the treasure hunter, the assassin, the sucker for Russian women of dubious intent. And if Ted Koppel and Ted Koppel’s hair wished to join him in this new life all the better. Yes, thus resolved, happily, Hanley Spurl sat back against the seat and closed his eyes, confident the bus driver would wake him when they reached their final destination.
But the bus never did stop again.
Blogger’s Emergency Kit
Photo by Daniel Steger
Sometimes in the act of writing my mind wanders, and what a haven the Internet is for the diverted. And how appropriate that in my recent meandering I came upon this sage bit of advice from the Blogger’s Emergency Kit:
Top 5 Solutions For When The Blog Well Runs Dry
5. Make a Top 5 List of anything, like “Top 5 Reasons Why I’m Too Lazy To Just Plagiarize Something From The Daily Beast And Call It A Day”
4. Hey, just trying to help in an emergency here. Sounds like five’s too much for you, so how about a Top 4 List? Four little things you can link together in an interesting way. Such as your top four secrets about Grandma’s undergarments to be revealed when that FamiLeaks site takes off.
3. Still nothing? Fine, let’s scale it back and make it a trio, because good things come in threes, like celebrity deaths. There you go! How about your top 3 favorite celebrity deaths? By dog mauling.
2. Oh, you don’t follow that sort of thing, sure you don’t. Okay, Snootyboots, then you come up something. I dare you. Come on. Right now, two things off the top of your head that you can put together on a stupid Top 2 list. Hint: Your two most memorable bowel movements.
1. What? I’m not being helpful? You’re not being helpful! Is the blog going to write itself? I’m offering a valuable service and all I get is pushback. We’re down to the last solution here, and I don’t think a Top 1 List is even a friggin’ list. So now what? Backed us into a corner, didn’t you? Oh jeeze. Don’t cry. Stop that. Please. I didn’t mean to yell. I didn’t! Okay. Sorry. Deep breaths. Long deep breaths. Feel better? What? Yeah, I got it, you were right, obviously you were right. I should’ve just let you clean out your damn refrigerator like you wanted to in the first place. So go ahead, fine, whatever, I’ll see myself out.
Build A Story With Bryan #1 – Needs A Title
Photo by Timbrauhn
For your reading pleasure, here is the completed story from April’s Build A Story With Bryan! We still need a title, so if you have any suggestions, please leave them along with your comments. Well done everyone, thanks for participating, and look for May’s Build A Story With Bryan to start soon!
For those who knew her, or thought they knew her, the sight of Brenda Duplicki sampling face creams at the beauty shop on Dexter two days after her death came as something of a surprise. More to the point, the Victorian frock she wore was unsettling, for age had muted its ebony folds to a dusty gray and the high white-lace color to a pestilent ocher. Suddenly, the crowd of onlookers was distracted by a high-pitched scream coming from the back of the shop.
Brenda ran out of the front door and disappeared in the crowd. But she accidentally left her purse on the beauty shop’s counter. Tossed from it, a sprawl of Turkish gold coins, an asthma inhaler and a shark’s tooth capped in silver. A passer-by, Hanley Spurl by name, idly studied the items on the countertop before his jaw dropped in astonishment. The silver-capped shark tooth was the last item the private investigator needed to find to confirm Brenda’s true identity as the notorious antiquities thief, Suzanne Zhuravlyova.
But was this the original silver-capped shark tooth or just another imposter, inconspicuously placed in the path of Hanley Spurl that would lead him on another anonymously concocted chase lasting 7.23 years? He removed the riding gloves he’d worn every day since losing the horse 6.76 years ago, and performed a pinching test on the shark tooth his mentor Sable Dakker had taught him back when they were working the aquarium murders together. The pinch test proved it to be the original; he took a puff from the asthma inhaler, and knew what he needed to do next. He had to find the woman he suspected was Suzanne Zhuravlyova and find out who she had given their child to all those years ago.
With a furtive glance in each direction, he scooped the contents back into the purse, tucked the whole affair next to the .45 in his jacket and slapped the gloves against his leg. He had only one hour to get back to Applebee’s. He paused, stricken by memories of their doomed relationship and the heartbreak he still felt. Or was it the lasagna? That was it. Hanley Spurl’s lifelong battle with lasagna was to blame. His eyes curled shut as did his fist to his chest. He didn’t see the danger approaching him because his eyes were firmly closed as he experienced a lasagna-induced agony.
There she was… Suzanne Zhuravlyova. Nobody but Hanley knew it was her because she changed yet again. This time she wore stirrup pants, a They Might Be Giants oversized T-shirt, and a cute stylish hat that complimented her eyes. And it was those eyes that said it all.
Hanley sensed her and spun, the gat already in his hand. He aimed it square between those hazel orbs and let the lead fly. It took her head into the next room for a chat and sent the other half of her crashing to the floor. But wait. Though the shark tooth was real, this Zhuravlyova was another fake, the third he’d dispatched since noon.
Hanley heard the familiar sound of police sirens in the distance, which is inevitable after a shooting spree in broad daylight, so he decided to leg it for the nearest Metro station. His heart sank when he reached the Metro stairs and saw the sign: “Closed for repairs.” And then, right when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, it started to rain. Which in turn soaked his white shirt that revealed the physique that he hadn’t paid attention to since 2004. He quickly hopped on the 189 bus southbound in hopes of evading capture. He never expected to be sitting next to Ted Koppel on a city bus!
Hanley began a quick study of this person next to him. But was it really THE Ted Koppel that Hanley had admired and dreamed of being with in an intimate setting since he was five years old? One telltale truth sign would confirm for Hanley if this was his Ted. Yes, by God, there it was the faint but distinctive body odor only Ted could exude and get away with. Hanley had a decision to make. What would he do?
Hanley walked to the front of the bus and addressed the driver in as secretive a tone as possible, requesting that he make an unscheduled stop three blocks up…right next to a manhole cover marked ‘Department of Raw Sewage.’ The bus driver snorted with derision and turned to Hanley with a scowl. This was the answer he had been looking for. Since it was apparent that he could not exit to the depths of the city he felt he deserved he had no other choice than to go public…and Ted Koppel was his avenue. Hanley swung his portly wet torso back onto the seat next to Ted’s hair. In person, it dwarfed the newsman, towering close to three feet off his skull, weighting the faulty neck into a constant compensation.
Ted barely turned the unwieldy thing to Hanley and spoke. “I’m better off than that jackass Ebert.”
Hanley wanted to laugh but was afraid of the pain it would trigger. He thought it was the heartburn, what he often imagined was an angry little man living in his stomach, a fire-breather, who when provoked spit a stream of flame up through Hanley’s chest, his esophagus, his throat. Hanley instead tried to smile but it came out as a wince. Ted looked disappointed he hadn’t earned an outright laugh, but Ted’s hair, the way it kindly undulated, seemed to appreciate the effort.
Hanley gazed out the bus window, pretending that the little man from his stomach was igniting the city trees they passed, and tried to remember the last time he’d smiled. Certainly it was before he’d killed the baker’s dozen of false Suzanne Zhuravlyovas, before what he thought was his child wrapped snugly inside a papoose was actually a bag of potatoes, before he’d unwittingly sold his horse to a glue factory magnate, before his life had been whittled down to as narrow a point as the tip of a silver-capped shark tooth.
He resolved, finally, to bury the tumultous exploits of his life deep within, and ride the bus until the end of the line, and wherever it stopped he would start anew. Gone would be Hanley Spurl the private detective, the treasure hunter, the assassin, the sucker for Russian women of dubious intent. And if Ted Koppel and Ted Koppel’s hair wished to join him in this new life all the better. Yes, thus resolved, happily, Hanley Spurl sat back against the seat and closed his eyes, confident the bus driver would wake him when they reached their final destination.
But the bus never did stop again.
What To Do About Writer’s Block
Photo by Jkgroove
I don’t know what to write about today. I’ve been staring at the computer for at least an hour with nothing to show for it. Okay, that’s not entirely true. There was a brief moment of inspiration courtesy of the stupid cursor winking and taunting me from the blank page. First, I typed out “F*ck you, cursor!” about ten times, and then “F*ck! F*ck! F*ck!” in a crisscrossing pattern down the page, and then finally just a single “WHAT THE F*CK AM I GOING TO WRITE ABOUT?!!!” in 72 font. But I deleted it all, and nothing’s come since.
I don’t believe in writer’s block but sometimes I hit a wall and can’t find a way around it. What do I do when this happens? I try harder. I hold my breath and concentrate on accessing the 90% of my brain that I supposedly will never use in my lifetime. Usually, I stop before I pass out. Yeah, I like to suffer for my art.
But what the f*ck am I going to write about!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Okay, maybe it’s time for some fresh air. I’m going to take my laptop outside and see if a change of scenery will help shake me out of this funk. So hold on a second….
Okay, I’m outside of my apartment now sitting at the top of the stairs and observing the street below. My laptop balanced on my thighs, I’m just going to type out what I see around me. As long as I’m writing there’s an opportunity that something’s going to spark. An idea will bloom. Maybe I’ll focus on something specific. Like those well-manicured miniature trees in front of the charter school across the street. They look like candelabras, and from here their leaves seem like they’d be fuzzy to the touch.
And now something’s happening. A car’s pulled up and stopped in the middle of the street outside my apartment. It’s a black Suburban with tinted windows. One of those for-hire cars. The driver rolls down the window. He’s looking at me. Seems friendly enough, though that nervous twitch below his left eye probably scares some people off. He’s asking me for directions to the 405 Freeway. Funny, he should know if he’s a driver, but hey, as I know firsthand, Los Angeles can be a confusing city to navigate. I’m not into shouting so I think I’ll go down and tell him where to go. So hold on a second…
Okay, this is weird. I swear the clock on my laptop said 8:30 AM when I went to give that guy directions, and now it says 9:00 AM and I can’t account for the last thirty minutes. And why is the only light the glow coming off the computer monitor? Obviously, I must have felt another change of scenery was needed to really kick-start the creative flow. But why I chose a cramped dark place where I can hear people screaming through the walls I have no idea. And why I thought a change of clothes was also necessary is anybody’s guess. But, hey, no judgments, I’m all about making peace with the creative process in order to get the most out of it. So I’m here, in a cell or whatever, dressed in this blood-stained hospital gown, let the artistic rejuvenation begin!
And guess what? Despite the fact that the majority of my lower body is starting to go numb, I think this is actually working. Yep, my brain is a-churnin’. Seriously, I can literally hear the gears spinning in my head. It’s got something. And now my fingers are suddenly electric. Here it comes!
oatmeal, eggs, spaghetti, bananas
What the f*ck!
I’m back to writing about my surroundings. Fine, I’m going to focus again on something specific. How about that message carved into the wall? H-E-L. Wait, now something else is happening. A door opens. A blast of harsh florescent light streams in from a dirty hallway. Some guys dressed like surgeons are here with a gurney. Okay, this is pretty interesting. One of the surgeons holds a drippy syringe in his hand. Oh yeah, this is definitely going to spark something good!
Oh, hold on, apparently the surgeons want me to put the computer down. I’m not exactly sure because they aren’t speaking English, but judging from their smiles and hand gestures they seem very eager for me to stop writing and come over and talk with them. All right, let me see what’s going on. So just hold on another second…
Build A Story With Bryan #1 – Only 5 Days Left!
This story has been quite a whirlwind. So far we’ve had secret identities, mistaken identities, a private eye, silver-capped shark teeth, heartburn, gats, and Ted Koppel.
Thank you all for contributing, I need your help for a few days more to wrap up the story by April 30! Here’s what we have so far:
For those who knew her, or thought they knew her, the sight of Brenda Duplicki sampling face creams at the beauty shop on Dexter two days after her death came as something of a surprise. More to the point, the Victorian frock she wore was unsettling, for age had muted its ebony folds to a dusty gray and the high white-lace color to a pestilent ocher. Suddenly, the crowd of onlookers was distracted by a high-pitched scream coming from the back of the shop.
Brenda ran out of the front door and disappeared in the crowd. But she accidentally left her purse on the beauty shop’s counter. Tossed from it, a sprawl of Turkish gold coins, an asthma inhaler and a shark’s tooth capped in silver. A passer-by, Hanley Spurl by name, idly studied the items on the countertop before his jaw dropped in astonishment. The silver-capped shark tooth was the last item the private investigator needed to find to confirm Brenda’s true identity as the notorious antiquities thief, Suzanne Zhuravlyova.
But was this the original silver-capped shark tooth or just another imposter, inconspicuously placed in the path of Hanley Spurl that would lead him on another anonymously concocted chase lasting 7.23 years? He removed the riding gloves he’d worn every day since losing the horse 6.76 years ago, and performed a pinching test on the shark tooth his mentor Sable Dakker had taught him back when they were working the aquarium murders together. The pinch test proved it to be the original; he took a puff from the asthma inhaler, and knew what he needed to do next. He had to find the woman he suspected was Suzanne Zhuravlyova and find out who she had given their child to all those years ago.
With a furtive glance in each direction, he scooped the contents back into the purse, tucked the whole affair next to the .45 in his jacket and slapped the gloves against his leg. He had only one hour to get back to Applebee’s. He paused, stricken by memories of their doomed relationship and the heartbreak he still felt. Or was it the lasagna? That was it. Hanley Spurl’s lifelong battle with lasagna was to blame. His eyes curled shut as did his fist to his chest. He didn’t see the danger approaching him because his eyes were firmly closed as he experienced a lasagna-induced agony.
There she was… Suzanne Zhuravlyova. Nobody but Hanley knew it was her because she changed yet again. This time she wore stirrup pants, a They Might Be Giants oversized T-shirt, and a cute stylish hat that complimented her eyes. And it was those eyes that said it all.
Hanley sensed her and spun, the gat already in his hand. He aimed it square between those hazel orbs and let the lead fly. It took her head into the next room for a chat and sent the other half of her crashing to the floor. But wait. Though the shark tooth was real, this Zhuravlyova was another fake, the third he’d dispatched since noon.
Hanley heard the familiar sound of police sirens in the distance, which is inevitable after a shooting spree in broad daylight, so he decided to leg it for the nearest Metro station. His heart sank when he reached the Metro stairs and saw the sign: “Closed for repairs.” And then, right when he thought things couldn’t get any worse, it started to rain. Which in turn soaked his white shirt that revealed the physique that he hadn’t paid attention to since 2004. He quickly hopped on the 189 bus southbound in hopes of evading capture. He never expected to be sitting next to Ted Koppel on a city bus!
Hanley began a quick study of this person next to him. But was it really THE Ted Koppel that Hanley had admired and dreamed of being with in an intimate setting since he was five years old? One telltale truth sign would confirm for Hanley if this was his Ted. Yes, by God , there it was the faint but distinctive body odor only Ted could exude and get away with. Hanley had a decision to make. What would he do?
To what exciting conclusion will you lead us?
My Confession
Photo by Cephas
In light of the controversy surrounding Greg Mortenson and the questionable veracity of his Three Cups of Tea, and Scott “Dilbert” Adams recently praising himself under a fake name on a message board, I’ve decided that the veil of lies I parade around in every day must be lifted. There shan’t be any more secrets between us. My blog is now my confessional booth.
Here goes:
Hello, my name is Bryan, and I’m a book addict. A fiction junkie to be specific. I’m not content with only illuminating foreign realms of my own consciousness, I want to disappear inside a different consciousness altogether. And in my apartment I’m surrounded by my drug of choice: in the yellow bookcase, the white bookcase, the brown bookcase, the built-in bookcase, the two overflow stacks on my writing desk, the precarious tower on my night stand. Vonnegut, Highsmith, Steinbeck and King. Boyle, Chaon, Moody and Dahl. To name just a few of my trusted dealers.
Yeah, I’m losing this war on drugs, and I don’t care.
And thankfully, neither does my wife. Hooray, she’s a book addict too! And she mainlines nonfiction as well as fiction. So there’s no hope for us. Sure, we’ve tried imposing moratoriums on book purchases, averting our eyes while driving past bookstores and feigning amnesia when it comes to the names of our favorite bookselling websites, but these attempts at self-control last as long as a Hemingway sentence. Because there’s always another title poking its precocious little face from a shelf or end cap or web page, practically begging us to add it to our collection. I swear it’s easier to leave the Humane Society empty-handed, and who are we to deny a good book, new or used, a loving, nurturing home?
By the way, if you do happen to visit our home, never tell us we have more books than we can possibly read in a lifetime. That kind of talk is a real buzz kill first of all, and second of all, will eventually expose you as a liar, because obviously the Universe is going to recognize our habit as virtuous and vital, and grant us at least a few extra decades to take care of business.
However, it must be said that we are doing our best in the here and now. Let me stress that we don’t just collect books we actually read them too (many of them; if I said “most” then I’d be the liar). And the reason we’re not drowning in books (though what a glorious way to exit!) is that every so often we take stock and donate both the read and unread in our inventory to the library, the local Goodwill, or we trade them in at a used bookstore…for credit…to…uh…buy different books. But come on, have you ever seen a bookshelf with empty spaces on it? It’s devastating, like a beloved family member suddenly missing teeth and ruining that beautiful smile you’ve always relied on to cheer you up.
Anyway, now that I’ve come clean about my wife and I being book junkies and demonstrated how it’s not a problem, I can write guilt free in my next post about where we like to indulge ourselves, where we shamelessly celebrate our addiction in public.