The answer to most questions is “I write.” Music keeps my heart beating. Language itself is my mother tongue. I’m American by birth; an international bastard otherwise. I’ve been obsessed with advertising all my life. I assumed I’d move to NYC for a job at Sassy Magazine immediately after graduating from college. But Sassy closed up shop early and I dropped out of college to work in film and television. Then I realized that while I no longer loathed Los Angeles, I definitely loathed showbiz. I met a boy and we got married and had a child and there’s a dog and a house now, and karate lessons, and chores, and all that jazz. Banal is my exotic. I’m utterly obsessed.
I write fiction. I write copy. I write articles: about people who buy the same kind of car over and over again, about the time my favorite singer fake-propositioned me from the stage, about the phone interview with the author who unknowingly changed the trajectory of my life. I write my name, because I chose it and I like it, and because when I forget that I can change things I don’t like, I can look at my name and remember. I write to find out what I’m thinking, to settle arguments I’m having with myself, to tell people I love them.
My love for people is even stronger than my inclination toward misanthropy, and if that doesn’t impress you then I’m not telling it right. I love: the sound of typing, velvet cushions and overstuffed chairs, ginger tea, dahlias, cutting my own bangs, red lipstick, photography, gin, pinot grigio, the Pacific Ocean, the way my grandfather laughed, the way my son says the word “chicken,” the 1960s aesthetic I saw in the old, hand-me-down kids’ books I grew up reading, and the fact that the majority of my closest friends are people I met online years ago.
I’ve said too much, or too little; anyway, it’s likely an inaccurate picture I’ve painted here. But perhaps it isn’t.
Email me here.