• Bridge Ladies

    Bridge Ladies When I set out to learn about my mother's bridge club, the Jewish octogenarians behind the matching outfits and accessories, I never expected to fall in love with them. This is the story of the ladies, their game, their gen, and the ragged path that led me back to my mother.
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And I Won’t Forget to Put Roses on Your Grave

I started this blog in December of 2008. I’m lousy at math, but I think that’s 13 years. My husband really tried to dissuade me from blogging. He was anxious that I would be too unfiltered, that I’d fail to respect boundaries, that I’d get in trouble. The reason he worried about these things is because he has lived with me for thirty years and he knows that I’m not happy unless I can be provocative. For a long time, I carried a can of spray paint withe me just in case. So I created some ground rules: I would never talk about any of clients, any projects that are in play, or talk trash about publishers. And for 13 years, I’ve abided by these rules and nothing bad has happened, unless you count the guy who threatened to lash me together with Patti Smith and lodge an axe in my heart. I was so young and cute when I started writing about publishing and writing. Now, I spend most of my time adding finger nails and bat wings to a boiling cauldron incanting prayers to the publishing gods. Don’t eat my children. Don’t unravel. Don’t give up. Don’t give up. Don’t give up.

How unfiltered are you?

10 Responses

  1. Clever, timely title with the death of Charlie Watts yesterday.

  2. “How unfiltered are you?”

    Fuck all, I don’t know. More and less than I was. I grow old, I grow old …

    There’s this — the real challenge — how to write anything nowadays that doesn’t read like a blog post, or a comment, or a string of tweets. How to keep from dropping crumbs on my keyboard. How to — no, not that.

    There was a time when I smoked Camel Unfiltered. When I smoked Three Castles. When I rolled my own and smoked through a holder.

    Now it’s what fucking set of letters am I? Do I capitalize my racial self-identification, or do I leave it small, so small? Do I dare see a pretty girl? Do I swipe left or swipe right or do I swipe every jewel from the case, they left it open, no one’s looking …

    Where’s the map? Where’s the compass? Can I reach around all of that? Who dropped the flashlight? Can you see the glow strips? Where’s the way out? Where’s the way in? What’s this over here? What’s that over there?

    How to be in a vanished world? Untethered? Why does WordPress tell me that word is suspect? Is there no untethering hereabouts?

  3. I’m pretty filtered. It keeps me out of jail, employed, stuff like that.

  4. How unfiltered am I?

    I’m not. I’m like a clogged drain. I never say what I’m really thinking. Extreme filtering in play. Like a dog teaches you patience, being a writer teaches you to keep your mouth shut.

  5. About as filtered as a joint rolled with dry, resinous bud; sweet, but a little harsh.

  6. Indy Clause has no filter. My real-life self has a thin, fraying filter.

  7. I’m all buttoned up. Honestly, I used to follow your blog, Betsy, lurking in the alleys before I finally got the spunk to speak up. I love it here. My writing (and thus, mind) is freest in the middle of the night when most of its free falling wanderings never see daylight. Then again, when/if I’m writing poetry, anything can happen.

  8. I need more filter so I can make stronger boundaries. Mine keep falling off. Maybe I can order some online.

  9. I have boundaries but I love to read other people’s unfiltered shit unless it’s dumb fuck stupid stuff.

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