writing

I sat with the same sadness I fell in love with

By Bill Pearse on July 18, 2016 • ( 15 )

The buzz of some lawn equipment and jets overhead, when it stops the birds fill in. The hammock between two ponderosa pines on the outskirts of our property, a two-person version that kind of swallows you, I hold my book… Read More ›

Look what phase the moon got into

By Bill Pearse on July 14, 2016 • ( 10 )

I still have the handwritten note from the guy who refinished our hardwoods when we moved into this house in 2010: how to clean them, the right ratio of vinegar to water, don’t over-wet the mop. His name was Roy… Read More ›

Backwards on the carousel

By Bill Pearse on July 13, 2016 • ( 15 )

I don’t know the stages of grief but it appears our animals are in one now, some sad acceptance their lives aren’t as good here as they were in Germany. They don’t like their food even though it’s the same… Read More ›

Deep impression by a shallow pool

By Bill Pearse on July 10, 2016 • ( 9 )

Gray smear of a Saturday too wet for yard work, it still seems everyone’s gone since the Fourth. You can hear a car engine coming a way’s away, they cut arcs around the bend and go in and out like… Read More ›

The last of the pulled pork sandwiches

By Bill Pearse on July 7, 2016 • ( 12 )

There was a time we used to just sit and watch our kids’ swim lessons at the Y and it was cute and sweet but that time has passed, and the last two days I take my laptop and wait… Read More ›

Faces in the driftwood the color of bone

By Bill Pearse on July 2, 2016 • ( 10 )

At the Starbucks in Aberdeen on the Washington peninsula halfway to the coast with the kids and Ginger, the condiment bar a shit-show, the aftermath of a frat party, a scene from Weird Science but with milk stains and sugar wrappers and… Read More ›

Lost in the Funhouse with Barth: on meta, Brecht, and what’s behind The Fourth Wall

By Bill Pearse on June 10, 2016 • ( 16 )

With social media and technology what they are, metafiction has become more a part of our lives than ever: we’re constantly stepping outside the frame to capture ourselves in it, and our story of documenting our life story is as much a story as the story itself. But as we step outside the frame, we’re straddling two worlds and cease to exist fully in either — like tourists on an Alaskan whale-watching cruise with our cameras out trying to catch the breaching whales as proof we were there, we miss the reality just beyond our lens and I wonder, did we really see anything at all?

Bill Pearse

Writing is learning to see in the dark