There is something about the suburbs, not the suburbs of television and ultra hip New York writers, not the suburbs of Suburgatory and The Stepford Wives. Not the suburbs of the writer I know who told a student (in workshop) that she could only write about her suburban home with irony, who implied authenticity only happens in cities and rural farmlands. And certainly not the suburbs of our mostly urban dwelling classmates who laughed and agreed.
There is something about MY suburbs, the liminal spaces between concrete and forest. Continue reading “on suburbia, godzilla, and briny beauty.”