Bob and Sharon hated to see their flowers turn color in the shop. Floristry was wilting. One day a customer forgot his credit card. They watched him trot a redhead across the street. Without knowing it, he donated to their store. Bob and Sharon had never seen anything grow so fast. It was easier than planting seeds. And thus it started: tulips, peonies, daisies, rhododendrons, orchids, all blossoming in their store. Men queued up outside, hoping to appease angry wives and sullen mistresses. Bob and Sharon understood it all as donated romance. Later, in the courtroom, he brought her roses.
writer. editor. doodler. er.
Writings in the Raw
Julia Halprin Jackson
writer. editor. doodler. er.
I write.
I doodle.
I'm at work on my first book, a collection of linked short stories that follows a community of expatriates living on the southern coast of Spain.
I care about stuff. Like curing type 1 diabetes. And marriage equality. And rights for immigrants. And public radio. And espanol. And Frank O'Hara and Jennifer Egan and Federico Garcia Lorca and Tony Kushner. You know, cool stuff.
I make postcards that are also stories.
Sometimes I read stories and poems out loud.
Sometimes I go to conferences.
You can find my short stories, essays, poems and flash fictio in a variety of places in print and online. If you Google really hard, you might find the two short radio pieces I produced on a badass NPR affiliate in San Francisco.
This is where you can go to find out who I am.