It has been a pure joy to host Literary Readings as part of my residency here at the Beach House. 

      As a writer I often long for good literary events such as Readings by some favorite fiction or memoir writers. Los Angeles' Writing  Community is widely spread out and made of up many, micro-communities that don't often come together to see, hear, and support each other.  When I applied for the Beach House Residency I knew, as part of my community events, that I wanted to organize Literary Readings––give California-based writers a beautiful venue to read their work, and give the Los Angeles community of writers an opportunity to spend two hours of a late afternoon weekend not only in a spectacular location but in the company of fine writers and moving stories, which (with the exception of one) all take place in California and have strong connection to a Sense of Place. 

      My final Literary Reading at the Beach House will be MARCH 15TH, SUNDAY AT 4PM. PLEASE JOIN US to hear LOU MATHEWS, RON DOWELL, SUSAN BERMAN, SANDY YANG, and MICHELLE LATIOLAIS read from their work. 

      Each of these writers has moved and inspired me, each one brings a unique, at times funny, lens in which, their often flawed, and lovable characters navigate through the complex place that is Los Angeles––California. 

Sometimes writing is impossible. I can sit in front my page and change semicolons here and there, delete a word here and there but nothing else seems possible. Today was such a day.

Instead of spending another 30 minutes in front of a page––I set a timer to go off every 30 minutes in order to make myself get up from my chair and stretch or walk up and down the stairs a couple of times––I decided to go for a walk.

Most days when I am here, at the end of the day I go for a walk on the beach, north, to the jetty and back. It is around a 40 minute walk, long enough to feel a shift in my mind and body, long enough to take in my surroundings. 

      Last week, I ventured out on on a cold California day with a strong wind that disoriented hundreds of seagulls and pushed up against the crashing waves. The beach was empty, except for a person with what looked like all her belongings, taking shelter underneath a boarded-up lifeguard station, and a few people walking close to the water as the sun was setting through the thin fog on the invisible horizon.  I came upon a dead gull; its wing like an elbow stuck out of the wet sand. The other seagulls didn't seem to notice and each went about their business making their way through the wind. I thought of Chekov's play, "The Seagull," I thought of oil spills that killed sea life, I thought of what the dead bird might represent if it were a symbol. The sun had disappeared and twilight emanated a dark, barely violet light. The flecks of people scattered on the beach were distant shadows   as I pulled up my hood turned toward the parking lot.

But today the beach is a different landscape. The receding tide has left millions of tiny seashells, pools of water, islands of sand, rocks and shells softened by time and sunlight. Today the wind is a welcomed warmth on my skin, and the seagulls, like myself, are bathing in it. My imagination and memory are ignited in a myriad of ways. But what struck me the most is this image I was able to capture: