Once upon a fiction writing class ago, I was told to write about the contents of my character’s purse.  Next, her closet, cupboards, nightstand table.  What does she post on her refrigerator door?  The things we keep, the way we keep them, mean something.  Look at a photo of any house, any room, any closet then make assumptions.  What do the assumptions say about you?  Everything I see becomes an everyday Rorschach test.

My bedroom closet and armoire, complete with spring cleaning air freshner (normally not there), and glass cabinet to house my silk scarf problem.

My character had a silver-framed photograph of her dog on her nightstand but no discernable indications that she had a dog.  Too many keys on her keychain to just have an apartment and office to visit.  I then wrote a story about a woman who sometimes visited home to give her mother, who she called KILLER, a hard time for backing up and slaughtering the dog, Pogo.  Clearly, I had issues myself.

What do you see?

Part of my living room.  Ottoman opens and is filled with bored games.  Linus opens and is filled with clean crooked teeth that make me laugh.

My fridge is covered with photos I’ve taken of friends, my grandfather, and old people from Central Park.  It is my estimation that Central Park should only be visited to photograph old people.  I’m also the photographer for Lincoln Center’s Young Patron Society… which explains the Mostly Mozart… don’t want you thinking I do ballet and the like… I’d rather eat a fistful of rancid chop meat.