Montreal

Montreal is a very clean city. More than that, it is a very approachable city. Even though my French is rusty, and Richie’s is nonexistent, we managed to get ourselves around without incident (except when Rich somehow knocked out an entire POS system by clicking on the wrong button at check-out). The food was great, the coffee was great, it wasn’t quite freezing. What more could one want?

Daily Practice

Writing every day used to come easily. Once, a professor asked my class who there wrote every day. No one raised their hand but me, and he told me I was full of shit. Back in those days, I was full of shit for a bunch of different reasons but lying about writing every day wasn’t one of them. Despite my daily practice, it took me seven years to complete a book about the French Revolution that I’m still not happy with. It took years to realize that writing every day is a practice dedicated to its own perpetuation, like jogging. After moving to Boston, without the external expectation of school or a big project, the daily practice was pushed to the wayside in favor of work and friends. My writing muscles got flabby. Very flabby.

Poetry Update 6!

My piece "in conversation with yet another therapist i stopped seeing" was announced as a finalist in the Lascaux Prize in Poetry competition. To rank in the top 16 out of 2000 is to realize that I may, in fact, be a poet. The work will be published later this year and I am STOKED.

The 2017 Wrap

The end of the year is upon us (thank God), and I must admit that it has been the strangest 12 months of my life. I mean, outside of the current political fiasco/hellish nightmare that is our country right now, 2017 was a changeable creature. To go from a pile of dust to a kick-ass, globe trotting, career gal in such a small amount of time is astounding. I'm proud of myself. For the first time in my life I can say, without a doubt, that I am proud of who I am.

An Unapologetic, Sappy Post About Friendship, Love & All That Other B.S.

When I remember my childhood, it always feels like fall. Let's not dwell on the fact that I grew up in Florida and that it was below 75 for about three weeks a year. For some reason, I remember doing arts in crafts in the front room of my best friend's house with a bunch of other girls while we waited for Girl Scouts to start. It's always fall. If that's not a season of nostalgia, I don't know what is.