Memories of Grandma

Memories of my grandma and the smell of the soap in her bathroom. She had a collection of decorative soaps that she had displayed on the counter over the sink; shaped like flowers and clusters of grapes, small cakes with bright colors and floral perfumed scents.

Later on, when my mom was a grandma, her bathroom was filled with rose scented soaps and lotions.

It must be a grandma thing to fill the privy with fresh scented bath products.

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Writing background...

I began writing at a very young age and really never stopped. I wrote in journals, I wrote short stories, and I wrote poems. I also wrote a lot for work. That was an interesting oeuvre, to be honest, and one that might be of interest someday. The work-related writing included both highly technical instructions and also letters of apology to guests who felt slighted in some way during their stay with us at the hotel. Although most of this isn’t publicly available, I am certain that some of my responses to guests on TripAdvisor are still there. It took me fifty years but I recently finished my first book, a memoir, entitled “B. Coming Burl” and self published it using Kindle Direct Publishing. Even before I published it I began writing my second book, which I plan to finish this summer (2020). It is entitled “When I was a child I found the entrance to hell to be a real place”. Although this second book is fictional, it has a lot of me in it. Thank you for finding my blog.

Missing Pieces

After I finished B. Coming Burl, I was fortunate to have many people read it who had grown up with me and knew for themselves, or who had grown old with me telling them my stories of a misguided youth. Several of them reminded me about stories that I either (1) had to edit out during revisions, or (2) had forgotten to include. So now I have decided to share a few of these missing pieces - teasers for those who haven’t read it, and a bonus for those who have. One story was from way back in the mists of my youth, when I was about four years old. We would make periodic pilgrimages to Nogales, Mexico as a family to buy essentials. I have fond memories of the small family-owned grocery store where my dad would buy café combate in small burlap bags, which the owner would grind for us in the back of the store, filling the space with the most amazing smell of fresh coffee. We would buy salsa from the factory and my brothers would buy fireworks to blow things up when we got home. Th

Daily Routine

My routine is to write on the bus. I work in Seattle and live in Tacoma and so my writing salon is the Sound Transit bus, the 590. Both the north-bound (in the morning) and the south-bound (in the evening) is my literary capsule, driving through time and space while I am cocooned in my thoughts. I often write about people I see on the bus. If any of my characters seem familiar, and you take the 590, I may be writing about you. My inspiration often comes from seemingly inconsequential occurrences. As an example, seeing the rivulets of water tracing the glass on a rainy day, or overhearing a conversation between two people where one person says, in exasperation, “They can’t keep us in suspense like this!” From these small happenings I spin great tales in my head, with ideas cascading off of one another and building momentum until I spill over with excitement about the images that I conjure up with my vivid imagination. And then I get to my destination and I get off the bu

B. Eugene B.

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