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I don’t have enough room for all the things. Minimalism seems to be popular these days. But not in this house.

I like layers of things. I like layered clothing (which isn’t much of a thing living in a hot climate). I like collage, pictures glued over images and found objects glued on top. My shelves are either for books or for altars.

Everything has meaning to me, whether it is because I like it, my son gave it to me, or it belonged to my mother. Dusting is a pain. I remember when my grandmother, many years ago, finally decided she never wanted anything she had to dust. She kept only a few family heirlooms, things she felt obligated to keep, and which she expected me to keep eventually. Probably the day will come when I won’t want to dust either, but in the meantime, I keep my altars.

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I write in layers. I write a quick draft. The first layer might be a conversation with few well-defined speakers. It might be a description of a scene. I go back over it and add details to the characters or scene. I go back over it again, adding connections to other scenes. Deleting a few things or moving them around. I go over them again and add a word here.

One day I’ll be washing my hair or driving down the road and realize something else that needs to be added. Or cut.

My mother once came into my room (my bedroom at my dad’s house and she hadn’t been inside the house in ten years), and she looked around carefully. “I keep finding new things to look at,” she said. And she thanked me for letting her in to see.

I hope my writing is like that. Upon each reading, may there be more to find.

Thanks for reading!

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