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If people looked through my room they’d find various boxes and shelves representing 25 years of accumulation. In one corner of my childhood bedroom sits a giant bag full of Star Wars figurines accompanied by a lone Millennium Falcon toy. That bag contains 11-year-old me’s, (and 25-year-old me’s  – who am I kidding) prized possessions: all of the ’95 Hasbro Power of the Force Princess Leia action figures, unopened. Next to that are three milk crates full of vinyl records, within are all of my Clash first pressings, which I started collecting as a kid after my mom gave me her copy of Combat Rock. Gathered in a nearby bookshelf are my Sylvia Plath first editions. Read the rest of this entry »

“Nothing happens!” my mother cries whenever I tell her The English Patient is my favorite book. Of course, she’s only seen the movie. Our debate usually ends when I tell her to read the book and she walks away. Imagine her extreme jealousy at the thought that I had an opportunity to meet the author of her “favorite” piece. She was practically green with envy, I think.  Or was that a stomach virus? No matter.  I, at least, was excited. Read the rest of this entry »

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