Yesterday marked three weeks of my return to California, three busy weeks.
And this weekend’s quick trip to the desert, home, made me realize that I am fortunate to call many beautiful landscapes by this name. Most of my stories originate in these settings and with characters that I owe nearly everything for the fantastic plots they deliver.
In fact, my sister (an employee of a department store) and my mother (a kitchen designer for a home improvement store) and my nephew (a seven-year-old super hero) filled my ears with a semester’s worth of material, including: a co-worker’s overly-detailed confession to loss prevention as he thought he was interviewing for a management position, a vivid portrait of the man who now wears my deceased father’s jeans, and a dramatic account of how a billboard had a lot of eyes.
I don’t need to invent anything.
shewhodaresnothing 
That’s so true. After reading only novels all my life, I read a couple of memoirs. Ever since, my novel reading has gradually fallen off to about zero. Truth is more fun than fiction in my book.