What do you write?
My non-fiction and autofiction (short stories) explore the practical fantasies of daily life: the personas we create online, families interacting with dementia, and the constantly morphing fantasia that is the American Dream.
Is there an author or artist who has most profoundly influenced your work?
I struggle with “most” or “best” since there’s so much to draw from. Hemingway for his brevity, Salinger for mastery of metaphor and social commentary. David Leavitt packs so much meaning into a page, and Augusten Burroughs mines mirth amid the muck and mire.
Why did you choose Stonecoast for your MFA?
Attending the Stonecoast Summer Conference in 2022 sold me! This is such a supportive, nurturing, and yet rigorous academic environment. After many years of being away from academia, I’ve felt nothing but welcomed into this fantastic community.
What is your favorite Stonecoast memory?
So far, the last few days of the January 2023 Residency were epic. After total exhaustion, I got a second wind and it gelled from there. Now I can’t wait to get back to Freeport.
What do you hope to accomplish in the future?
To publish, publish, publish, and teach writing craft to adults who want to share their life experiences.
If you could have written one book, story, or poem that already exists, which would you choose?
Can I get away with favorites? Any of Salinger’s Nine Stories, Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” and Steinbeck’s “The Chrysanthemums.” More recently, Ryan Van Meter’s essay “First,” is nothing short of amazing.
This is an excerpt of a short story in progress, set in New York City, 1992. Pete and Wally are twentysomethings on their first date after chatting on a gay computer site. They’re at Wally’s apartment, after meeting up at a local gay bar.
“Last Night with the American Dream” (excerpted)
By Ron Bel Bruno
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Wally’s lair was no Ethan Allen room-in-a-box ensemble. Fresh-cut orchids on a round marble table in the front hall before a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Mahogany bookcases, a camelback sofa, and wood-burning fireplace in the living room, its charred hearth one of the only signs of activity so far. It was damned classy, as my Jersey cousins might say. But it was lacking something. A few photos? A snapshot or free calendar from the pizzeria on the fridge? A New York Telephone bill or two on the front-hall shelf?
My place wasn’t so anonymous. It would take Jessica Fletcher only five minutes into “Murder She Wrote” to finger me as a “late 20s sexually evolving gay boy with a confused sense of 20th Century American décor, leaning heavy on Mission chic, which will soon be out – but don’t tell him.” Places like Wally’s? unsettled me. I couldn’t nail quite why at that moment. Whatever. It might not be the largest apartment in the building; it might even be a sublet. Who cared? In any case, Wally was doing this analyst thing very well, but more importantly, I liked him. So far.
“You into Celine Dion? I have her new disc,” as he placed it onto the carousel with four other CDs.
Blech. He surprised me with this one. I thought he said he was into Peter Gabriel when we chatted online. Sade and Peter on the same CD tower. Nah. Maybe his dick had been doing the talking. I gave him a pass. “Sure, that’s great,” I chirped.
Further discussion revealed a great future for Wally, including a six-digit income and eight-digit goals. It would be impressive – if such things impressed me. But I knew who they would excite. I imagined bringing someone back home like this guy next Thanksgiving. Finally coming out to Mom and Dad might not turn out to be the Salem witch trial I imagined. He could talk to my NYSE-driven father about the virtues of index-fund investing versus riskier small-cap stuff. We’d march down Fifth Avenue together, the whole damned family, at the next GLBT parade, after my parents joined the Northern New Jersey chapter of PFLAG, which I was pretty sure stood for Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays.
This happy scene would end forever those conversations in which Sam, Gloria and I would play a verbal game of chicken over our Veal Francaise at some cave of a Passaic County restaurant: “It’s been a while since you’ve told us about any dates, Pete,” Sam would say.
“Sam, leave it alone. You know how rough that breakup was.” Gloria would spring to my defense before I could even swallow my escarole and begin to answer.
“That was seven years ago!”
‘Hey, everybody. I’m here, in the room. Who says I’m not dating? And who says I want to even be married?” These were both truisms. But I was tired of speaking opaque truths to temper a lie of omission. It grated on me. I would inevitably make a Freudian slip one day and whatever restaurant we were gracing would host a “very special episode” of Shooting the Elephant in the Dining Room. Tears, regrets, spilled red sauce and tiramisu left languishing on our plates. But not yet.
The carousel sent Celine backstage for a bit. Her replacement … Talking Heads. I’ll take it. There was hope for Wally’s taste in music after all.
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