Luellen Smiley is a creative nonfiction writer, author, columnist, and historian whose writing is deeply rooted in a controversial personal history. She is the daughter of Allen Smiley, a close friend, associate, and business partner of notorious Las Vegas gangster Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel. Her father was sitting only feet from Siegel when Siegel was murdered in Beverly Hills on June 20, 1947.
That extraordinary childhood history became the foundation for Smiley’s first book, Cradle of Crime: A Daughter’s Tribute, published in 2017. The memoir explores what it was like to grow up as the daughter of a man connected to organized crime while trying to reconcile her love for her father with the secrecy, fear, and criminal world surrounding him.
Smiley’s work has appeared in publications including the New York Post, MORE Magazine, Southern California newspapers, and Authorlink. She wrote the newspaper column Smiley’s Dice—Adventures in Livingness, which earned a Blue-Ribbon Award from the California Newspapers Association for her Growing Up With Gangsters columns.
Her interest in her father’s history also led her to become a researcher and commentator on organized crime history. She has participated in television, radio, and documentary interviews.
Smiley’s next book, Gaslighting Greta, will be published this year. A personal story that reads like fiction. Her own website describes the project as exploring a woman whose life is destabilized by gaslighting and psychological manipulation.
Her writing career reflects a recurring theme: using personal experience and research to uncover the truth behind complicated relationships and extraordinary lives. From the secretive world surrounding her father and Bugsy Siegel to the deeply personal territory of Gaslighting Greta, Smiley’s work transforms difficult experiences into stories of survival, discovery, and ultimately reclaiming one’s voice.
Luellen Smiley is an author whose life has given her an unusual perspective on secrecy, manipulation, family loyalty, betrayal, and survival—and she uses that perspective as the raw material for her nonfiction storytelling.
Excerpt from Gaslighting Greta : JUNE 10, 2017. Santa Fe, NM
⭐
Rating: 1 out of 5.
The sun seemed to say,” Ok, it’s summer, let’s go outdoors.’ I listened. With my badass worker’s gloves, I lifted that rod iron antique chaise with a broken wheel to my patio. Then I washed the cushion with bleach and soap and let it dry. A few hours later I looked outside, the once feral cat that refused my invite for a year is now
curled up in my writing chair, we are listening to Opera.
Tiny drops of beauty I am beginning to see again. Carrying hatred is like wearing a coat of repellent against the world. Its aroma may be masked by Chanel but I am certain the whiff of my malcontent is apparent. All the advice and counseling from lawyers, legal-aid, and foreclosure specialists feels bloated. I’m switching from outside counsel to instinct. I’m learning to be more like Rockette. God must have sent him, he is indifferent to the diesel engines, steel ramps crashing on the pavement, racing cars, construction, and my irascible moods. His cat habitat is to sleep during the day, eat tiny meals every few hours, cry every few hours and wait for me to cry back. Around midnight he goes out hunting, returns at three in the morning, and I have to feed him. Then I’m awake so I’m drinking coffee and watching movies. It’s taken three weeks for me to gracefully and tenderly allow him to cry and wake me up. Without him is unbearable. We all need to take care of someone.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
When I spoke with Greta in November and asked to see the next journal book, she replied instantly, ‘There’s nothing worth writing about. I breezed through it, and it’s all about what to sell of my treasures, finances, and whiny words.’ I asked if she’d send me the journal just in case there is a good transition to the next season. She said, All right. I imagine she ripped out the pages she didn’t want to reveal.
FROM THE JOURNAL
day in bed, emptied into a slab of molasses. In the next room, half-wrapped boxed books, photographs, summer clothes that need to be stored.
Fall light appears in the dining music room and falls on a stack of Swing vinyl. I need to listen to this music in the winter. I search for jobs on Indeed in the gallery museum category. What the heck! There are so many requirements I’ve never heard of. It’s all tech, and I’m not an alpha beast expert in SEO, platforms, social media, Excel, Adobe, and PowerPoint. I do have experience. I am passionately curious about artists’ lives and art history. Now I am the one being interviewed by a thirty-year-old when once I was on the other side, a juxtaposition of reality.That kind of thinking got me into trouble, too much imagination and not enough reality. What is the name of that kind of person? Escapist, misfit, eccentric, dreamer?
The Follies House-Broadway Suite Vacation Rental 2003. What a marvelous time I had decorating.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
A thirty -five-year bond broken by, sudden estrangement, psychological abuse, foreclosure, and gaslighting. Financial and legal burdens are presented in dark humor while tracking Greta’s will to survive through the power of friendship.
Gaslighting Greta is a suspenseful and deeply personal true story about the mysteries people create, the truths we sometimes resist, the enduring power of love, and the unexpected freedom found through self-reckoning and forgiveness.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
Writing feels rusty today. I plow deliberately through the blank mental soil to find a blade of substance in a week of tragedy and cultural chaos. In conversations with men and women about our fractured culture.
” It was never like this when I was growing up,” that is from a fifty-year-old,
” I won’t get on a plane, no way?” from a forty-year-old.
” I don’t talk about my views with anyone at work or out of work, except my family and friends.”
I replied, “Yes, we have to talk niceties, bland boring conversation. “
When I was growing up, there was more joking, laughter, and confessional conversation. I was thinking about my high school years; we talked a lot about emotions, our parents, our dreams, and our fears. I don’t recall restraining what was on my mind. Perhaps that is why the majority of the younger generation prefers social media friends, as they can be easily deleted or blocked. On my FB page and feed, not one follower or friend reveals their political views, including myself. Isn’t that so contrary to humanity? And political violence, I keep hearing we won’t tolerate that on the news, but we are tolerating it. Do we all need drones over our homes for security? An optimist would say, We can do better, and we will; a pessimist might say, I think it’s going to get worse, and a nihilist would say, Life isn’t worth fixing; it’s just worthless.
I’m still dusting off the pleasantness of the past with the polemic present.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I am leaning into naturalness more than the keyboard, screen and far from the madding crowd.
You hear a chime the moment it responds to a breeze. The sound is beautiful, like rain on a metal rooftop and wind in the trees. The chime improvises its sounds and movements. This abstraction reminds me of sensitivity. It can be soft and gentle, nurturing the souls of those who are less peaceful.Or it can be like pounding surf on a frail body.
Back at the desk, sensitivity reigns me in when I am stunned by these acronyms. What does DMing mean so I asked and it is this, Dungeon Mastering, or are they referring to Direct Messaging?Then came IRL, what could that be? IN REAL LIFE!
I’m going outdoors right now, this is crawling up my back like a slimy snake. We have to identify real life?
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
“Today is postcard perfection, even now, with sunlight too harsh to look at, the trees with tongues hanging for water, and the dead plants in the garden. I think of the ocean, the look of the sea from watery suntanned eyes, in Malibu and Santa Monica or Del Mar beach, the splashing of waves around my shoulders as I sink beneath the surface.I’m going home to the flowered gardens and avenues of palm trees of Del Mar to see where and if I belong. I spend the days interviewing movers, making last-minute appointments, separating wardrobes, rummaging through my storage unit, and staring into an unknown future for the first time in thirty-five years without my partner.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
Pip: There’s a site called Adventurers in Livingness, and that title is doing exactly the work it promises — no hedging, no irony, just a full commitment to the examined life.
Mara: LouLou’s writing here pulls from journal entries and a work-in-progress book, and today we’re sitting with one piece — the insomnia of separation, what it costs, and what it reaches for.
Pip: Let’s start with the 3 a.m. accounting.
Insomnia, Separation, and the Geometry of Longing
Mara: The post opens with a claim about emotional posture — that a fractured life shapes how we carry ourselves the same way physical posture does, and that the antidote isn’t neutrality but active love.
Pip: And the specific image that anchors it is the racetrack. She writes: “My heart is at the starting gate to love again, but the racetrack is missing.”
Mara: That’s the whole tension of the piece in one line. The readiness is there. The context for it isn’t. And what follows is an inventory of exactly what that missing context looked like — the particular textures of a particular partnership.
Pip: The list that comes next is where the writing earns its keep. It’s not abstract longing — it’s forensic. The shoulder a head bows to. The laughter that erupts in spontaneous passion. The man who finds humor in her attempts to open bottles with a dull spoon.
Mara: That specificity is the point. She’s not mourning a category of companionship. She’s mourning the precise choreography of one relationship — “feeling his eyes in a crowd, undressing or admiring me, for some folly or expression.”
Pip: Inventory as elegy. It’s a genuinely old form and she uses it without apology.
Mara: She brings in Henry Miller to close the emotional argument — from Henry Miller on Writing, the line: “Whoever greatly suffers must be, I suppose, a sublime combination of a sadist and masochist.” Her response to it is dry and immediate: “I think he’s looking at me.”
Pip: Self-recognition without self-pity. That’s a harder balance than it looks.
Mara: The piece ends in a different register entirely — outdoors at twenty degrees, three years of a doctor urging flu shots, her steady refusal, and his chuckle when she explains she hasn’t had a cold since 2012. It’s a side-step into the ordinary, and it lands as relief.
Pip: The body keeps its own ledger, separate from the heart’s.
Mara: What stays with me is that the piece refuses comfort without refusing warmth.
Pip: Longing that precise is its own kind of presence. More from this corner of livingness next time.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
MISADVENTURES OF TODAY… Job boards alerts for the JOB I am perfectly suited for, are in Tallahassee or Wichita and require AI experience, and about seven variables of programs written as unrecognizable anagrams. I am only in my fourth month of job searching digitally, days of in person interviews are akin to eight-hundred-page novels.
My resume is professionally edited, posted on all the legit job sites and about ten questionable ones. I write personal letters to the museums, galleries, foundations and event planning departments, no reply, or the feigned friendly formal answer, ‘Thank you for contacting us! We do appreciate your time. We’ve chosen another candidate.’ The algorithm cadets are pushing me in the slush pile. Can you blame me if at least one day a week I scream silently. The bot bounty hunters are shooting me. Set this aside and see my phone, the icons on the home page change weekly, by a phonebot, and google decided to sync five thousand laptop photos on my phone. Now when I have to scan for a return to Amazon because they sent me two fans instead of one, the scan is where?
On my knees praying this laptop continues to behave or I will scream outdoors and be reported within seconds by a resident because Solana Beach bodies seem to obey all the orders. I tend to test authority, like not renewing my driver’s license for two years, and lying to my Doctor about my state of mind, because he’ll advise therapy and I self-analyze myself about everything, so why hear it twice.
The new modest home serves me what I came him for, ocean breezes, quiet, and private, neighbors that seem to harmonize, we can just say hi, is ok. At the intersection where I live, athletic, toned, and tanned looking males and females run, jog, walk, bike the sidewalks and streets in identical outfits. Sort of like a stage play and it’s inspiring to see that health is the way to live, I just don’t remember that culture dominating when I lived here. What I don’t understand doesn’t bother me, it’s a curiously about moving back home and feeling misfitted.Those of you who know me, have heard me say this about every location I move.
The ocean breeze, fan blowing against the curtain panes, bougainvillea bushes that colorize my terrace, the phone calls from friends, and edits sent by my publisher tranquilize the BOTS AND BOOBOOS.
Misfitted and anxious for acknowledgement due to not having ten thousand followers or whatever is the number, an author’s marketing team (everything seems to be in teams) contacted me with an offer to represent my book, Cradle of Crime-A Daughters Tribute published in 2017. Here’s the first paragraph of the first email.
The idea at the heart of Cradle of Crime is one that I had never encountered framed quite this way before. A daughter’s journey into her father’s criminal past, beginning ten years after his death. Most memoirs about family secrets are written as reckonings, as confrontations with the truth, as attempts to understand how a parent’s hidden life shaped the child who was left behind. You wrote something different. You wrote a book that is not just about uncovering the past, it is about the impact of that uncovering on your own identity, about the humiliation, rage, shame, and acceptance that came with discovering that your father was Benjamin Bugsy Siegel’s best friend and business partner. And you built that entire idea around the truth that the secrets our parents keep are not just their own, they become ours, and that the work of understanding who we are often requires us to confront who they were, even when what we find is devastating. That reframe is everything.
Six emails later and digging through all the scam searches, I discovered BOT LITERARY HOAX. On my base she pitched me the marketing plan, without cost. Now I have a comprehensive skill set to use! Sample: Listopia, ARC team, enhanced keywords, categories, Amazon Ads, metadata overhaul, refresh, etc. I did not use any of these when I self-published. I thought about reporting them, No, they can hack me!
This week, another author marketing team contacted me with a similar, your story resonates with multiple markets you haven’t accessed. So, I decided to ask ChatGPT to run a check. One minute didn’t pass before this was returned. The opening sentence was, Luellen, I wouldn’t advise this company for Gaslighting Greta! BOT brilliance, he remembered from a previous question.
Absolutely. I can recreate the Michael Literary Team assessment we just did.
I would not send them money, your complete manuscript, financial information, passwords, or other sensitive material until the company is independently verified. I would not call it definitively a scam based solely on the evidence, but there are enough warning signs that I would not treat it as a conventional, established literary agency without further verification.
Major red flags we identified
Multiple/near-duplicate domains
There appears to be both a correctly spelled Michael Literary Team site and a misspelled “Micheal” version.
This is unusual and raises questions about the history and ownership of the operation.
Changing personnel and biographies
Names and positions appearing on the sites have inconsistencies.
Some biographies have the feel of generalized/template-generated profiles rather than independently verifiable publishing-industry résumés.
Website/template errors
We found repeated spelling, wording, and structural errors.
There were also inconsistencies in company information.
Incomplete Chicago address
The claimed Chicago presence did not provide the kind of easily verifiable business information you would expect from an established literary agency.
Very broad range of services
The operation appears to offer an unusually wide combination of literary, publishing, marketing, cinematic, and related services.
That isn’t proof of wrongdoing, but it warrants scrutiny.
Testimonials are difficult to independently verify
Testimonials on a company’s own website aren’t strong evidence of legitimacy unless the authors and their publishing histories can be independently confirmed.
The Gavin Westbrook example
We found outside discussion concerning a $1,000 package and a relatively small independent social footprint.
This deserves additional verification before relying on the testimonial or client claims.
Weak independent footprint
An established literary agency would normally leave a substantial trail outside its own websites: reputable publishing databases, established agents, publisher relationships, industry references, verifiable authors, rights sales, etc.
Part 2 — Connection to Susan Literary Team
This was particularly interesting.
We found evidence suggesting a substantial connection between Michael Literary Team and Susan Literary Team, including:
Emmanuel Carter appearing in connection with both.
Susan Cinematic appearing on the older/misspelled Michael site.
Susan Cinematic being associated with the Susan organization.
Similar website structures, services, Chicago references, and wording.
The Susan domain appearing to have been registered on March 21, 2026.
Similar language concerning a “bulk buyer strategy.”
Repeated copy/wording errors across the sites.
That does not, by itself, prove fraud. But the similarities make the relationship between these organizations an important issue to investigate.
Bottom line
My assessment was essentially:
HIGH CAUTION — do not pay until independently verified.
The evidence is strong enough that I would not recommend treating Michael Literary Team as a verified, traditional literary agency at this point.
And importantly, the 75–85% figure we discussed was a “do not pay until independently verified” risk assessment, not a mathematical probability that the company is fraudulent.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
STILL A MYSTERY WHO SHOT BENJAMIN “BUGSY” SIEGEL .
JUNE 20,1947
Several years ago, I received an email from a reporter in Las Vegas. George Knapp had read some of my memoir posted on my website and asked for an exclusive interview. He asked about my father’s relationship with Ben Siegel “Bugsy” and what I knew about their friendship, and why Ben Siegel was shot. I declined the interview, butGeorge persevered. Three weeks later I agreed to the interview, because my father was not there to stop me.
We met in Del Mar at the Inn Auberge. I showed up with a notepad to remind me what not to say, a photograph of my father when he was a producer for Cecil B. De Mille, and a borrowed calmness that comes when I am approaching an extremely anxious situation.
My first interview about Dad was not anything like I imagined. George approached the subject with respect, and I relaxed and began talking, and talking, and talking. The only time I hesitated was when he asked if I knew who killed Ben, and I had to answer swiftly, “I think Bush did it.” He was not too impressed with the answer; but it saved me from theorizing.
At the end of the interview, I walked out of the hotel without regret. I said what I felt should be told; that my father’s best friend was Ben Siegel. If he loved Ben and my mother loved Ben, than there is a lot more to “Bugsy” than what the public has been told. The interview aired on a Friday night, and my life was no different from before. George got a call from someone who claimed my father once told him, Virginia Hill’s brother was the shooter. It sounds like my father; he enjoyed sending people down the wrong path. He always said, “You don’t inherit friends,” and so I declined to remain friends with family members of his group, because I respected hisorders, even after he died.
I doubt any of his mob friends are still alive today. Many people have claimed they knew my father, but in essence, what they mean is they met at Ciro’s, or had a game of cards, or went to the racetrack. My father’s only friends were connected to organized crime. I learned this when he died; three people showed up for the service. He warned me to keep away from reporters, and not to trust anyone. Still, strange incidents followed his death that I was unprepared to handle.
A man I’d never heard of called and informed me, ‘Your Dad and Ben buried a safe deposit box in downtown Los Angeles. You should look for the key, there may be a lot of cash.’ My father was not about to leave this world without telling me he had stashed money in a safe deposit box. I will bet every dollar on that. Another man, posing as a friend, came to my aid offering help settling the estate. A few weeks later another man I had never heard of, placed a claim on the estate for an old gambling debt of $5,000. The two of them were conspiring. Had I known gambling debts are erased when the bettor dies, I would not have allowed my sister to sell his Patek Philippe diamond and ruby pocket watch, which I suspect belonged to Ben Siegel at one time. The end of my father’s life was as mysterious as when he was living. That is how he liked it, and that is how he lived it.
I had to wait until my father was in his seventies to go to the racetrack with him. He took me to Santa Anita, we sat in the clubhouse, and he watched the track from behind tinted dark sunglasses. He was quiet and observant. He watched me eat and then handed me a twenty-dollar bill to bet on the Exacta. He told me how to bet and which horses to bet. I walked away from the cashier thinking I would be a big winner. Instead, I walked away a big loser. This was a setup, he picked the losing horses, so I’d get the lesson ” Even your old Dad loses at the track, remember that.’ There wasn’t anything exciting about going to the track, he made sure of that. I suppose he was concerned, that I had inherited a taste for betting.Lucky for me; I discovered Dad’s gambling didn’t pay off. When he was with Siegel in the forties, controlling the wire service he’d bet up to $50,000 in one day. And lose it on the next gamble. I don’t bet on sports, or gamble in casinos. I do gamble on life, and aim for the outlandish, improbable questionable odds.
Photo: Leaving Beverly Hills Police Department day after the murder.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
FEEL, THINK, AND REACT. Tumbling through all the transitory advice forces me to examine more closely whom to believe. I’ve never been a leader, nor a follower, I walk in between, trying to pave a pathway to peace of mind. Maybe that is unattainable as I am in a cultural, political, medical, financial, and socially reimagined world. It reminds me of being a teenager when life was questionable, and confusion was like a stinging bee we couldn’t swap away. So, in my senior year in high school I started writing in a notepad. Gradually, almost supernaturally I withdrew from my gang, and spent the weekends in a Cafe with adults, or in the library. The loner label pleated my pants.
Loners were portrayed in film, books, and art as mysterious, untouchable icons. They even became romanticized as people of superior cerebral awareness. I’ve met and gained friendships with several over the last few decades. It may be that loners have thin skin, they absorb the ethereal and reality, so in many situations the absorption is too weighty and the loner cuts loose before the party is over, cancels at the last minute, and doesn’t answer the phone. Talking, engaging, evaporating into another person feelsherculean for me sometimes.
Does isolation relate to the intensification of rancorous physical assaults in streets and shops, which is my pestering pursuit today. Are all these perpetrators unloving, and live amongst the unloved? People are shot because their hamburger wasn’t properly served on time, or they have a different opinion. I was living in Los Angeles in 2018, and one day driving down Pico Blvd I noticed a sign, “Walk in Anger Management.” Maybe we need to convert a few drive-thru food diners to Anger Management centers. It sounds amusing. If I was financially able, I’d open one in every major city.
WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THIS CULTURE is unimaginable for a woman who grew up in the Love and Peace generation, or even into the eighties and nineties. We didn’t shoot one another, maybe a fist fight, or a shouting match, but not murder in cold blood.Could this macabre movement be abated by friends who love you more when you are gentle and kind? It cannot be that simple, or could it? When I used to rage about some occurrence that tattered me personally, Dodger would come to me and say,
‘Greta put your guns down,’ that always made me laugh, and then we’d talk out what triggered my fury.
THE COMFORT OF EXHIBITINGlife on paper. It is not the act of writing with pen and paper moving along at a steady rhythm; it’s the activation of the heart and mind, collaborating to unravel the relevant from the irrelevant. To reach this state of matrimony, a writer doesn’t need a Tuscan Villa or an English Castle, but experiences that flake off the skin and shake out relevance. What I’ve rediscovered is that without a lot of stuff to organize, the mind is free to think, more time to create and effect essential decisions. Narcissism is sacrificed and replaced with more visceral makeup. Minimalist living has erased my past, and that is as transforming as day to night.
PUZZLE OF SOLITUDE will always be a puzzle because our lives, solo or mated, are puzzled by too much solitude, or not enough. There is an inner exploration happening, unfolding like spreading new sheets on my bed, that solitude has befriended me all my life, in the best of times and the tedious. I have to find the frolic and follies in the world that I created. I have to laugh alone, so I watch screwball comedies, seek humor in my irregularities; wearing a sweater inside out, pouring coffee into a wine glass for a cocktail, and chuckling when I keep forgetting where I left my phone. Laughing at myself is a funnel that leads to writing.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
SPACIAL dimensions define a lifestyle. I walked into a room of four hundred and fifty square feet, and begin designing a new nest, where I could rest, write, and regain a root. I brought two suitcases, a box of paperwork, and my laptop. In a tote bag: one coffee cup, a fork, knife, spoon, one bowl one plate, a wine opener, a razor knife, and two scissors.
That was one week ago, today I have a room of Amazon: a, bistro table, two chairs, one bedside table, one dresser, and a free-standing shelf for the bathroom. I’ve never seen a bathroom without a hook, a shelf, a few rods, it’s like a prison bathroom. All of this is what I’ve named experimental living. I have a 16ft POD in a lot in Saratoga Springs, and to transport twenty years of collections and spend months separating, what goes to storage and what I can use made no sense one sleepless night. I’ll leave it there until I am positively positive I’m staying here. I know you are out there, the gypsy wanderers, the unsettled, the ones whose address changes like the seasons.
Choosing to buy furnishings online is cost-effective. If I go into a consignment shop or furniture store, I’ll pull out the credit cards that I’ve sworn off like I have going out in the sun without SPF seventy. This is all the first layer of experimenting with a lifestyle that I lived when I was hey nineteen not seventy-three. Am I proving something to myself? Probably, I deny convention, and ultra comfort because then I wouldn’t think, I’d lay around and be satisfied.
Bedroom, living room, dining room and entry
” The writer lives between the upper and lower worlds, he takes the path in order eventually to become that path itself.” Henry Miller.
I am digging into something unknown, it’s as if someone has taken charge over my decisions and I just met her. Fragments of who I was in Santa Fe, or Saratoga, pop up in the annoying half wall mirror that invades my privacy. I intend to buy a lovely Asian or Moroccan divider to hide myself. I wish there was a mirror to my emotions, so I know what I am hiding, and refusing to face off with. I made a note yesterday in my journal,
‘ I’ve always been a misfit.’ Where I am now, is a succession of experimenting with the unknown, at an age when my peers are in the known.
Just took another walk outdoors, one of ten to twelve every day, to remove the scenery of too heavy unopened boxes, that Simon, my assembler will turn into furniture Friday. He is Russian, and was one of the lucky ones to leave, two weeks before the war began. He can assemble twenty-five pieces in a NY minute.
The outdoors, familiar from twenty years ago, with a whipping gentle wind, sun, joggers, walkers, skateboarders, and surfers pass along, and I feel a newly planted root.
I’ve written in the genre of Creative Nonfiction, integrating the events through dialogue, journal entries, and a third-person narrative. Within three locations, Santa Fe, New Mexico, Los Angeles, California, and Saratoga Springs, NY. Greta (me) exposes the mutilation gaslighting abuse inflicts on her emotions, psychology, mental and physical health, and her finances.
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