So happy I'm writing a story!

Some personal detritus is in disorder, namely my move to the Rappaport (mother's maiden name) family home where my mother grew up and then I. A family (screaming young kids) and old people's beach neighborhood on the western tip of Long Island, actually in Queens. Enchanting boardwalk, white sand beach, mecca for poor hot city dwellers, sucky public transport, and only one good restaurant, which is interested in hosting a reading. Lovely, huge old old (as in 1880's) Victorian house I'm trying to sell, 1 1/2 blocks from the beach. Lots of STUFF to throw out, sort out, sell. Amazing old STUFF that I can't possibly throw out. Not to omit TONS of books.

So I still own the Greenwich Village apartment which has been on the market since April and yes, I know, the market is for buyers and exceptionally slow and fussy. Instead of moving to the Asheville NC area, where I'd like to eventually establish a writers' and artists' and composers' collaborative retreat, by the end of the year, I may have to stay in this house for an indefinite length of time.

This is an isolating neighborhood for someone like yours truly. So in between the tasks, if I can be involved in the writing process, I'm not miserable. I'm working on a crazy,satirical, surreal comic story with a deadline of August 1st. A friend told me about this themed contest and it's giving me focus. More on that later.