the world and writing of a nyc writer

i have a few pseudonyms and millions of stories. thank you for stopping by.

Author: the writer (page 1 of 221)

open a book. turn the page.

For the past 11 months, my notebooks have been in a suitcase locked away. Not the ones that are in my handbag filled with blue ink, of course. But my history.

I took such an emotional and psychological beating over a three year period, that I shut off one of the most important parts of me. Sure there’s a lot of my words floating around here on this site, but they aren’t inky.

Ink is and will always be what flows through my veins. My blood line. For awhile my life really dried up, for reasons too vast to phrase.

Considering I was married when I was 25 until close to 35, my adult life was really fueled byIMG_2831 a relationship. My ex-husband never understood how he impacted my word art. He never gave a shit, to be frank, which is just another reason I left him 10,000 miles behind me.

The collection of tepid lovers I’ve acquired over the past few sets of months may have inspired a poem or story, nothing earth shattering. Certainly nothing soul shaking.

Then, about three weeks ago, I met someone who completely changed my life. I don’t stop thinking about him. I tap my fingers and bop my toes thinking of where we’ll go next; what flowers I’ll bring him; the sound of his voice or spark of his touch.

And finally, this morning, I opened my suitcase of notebooks. First, I cried. Not a lot, just a little. Then I called Anthony to tell him what he inspired of my morning.

I can’t even begin to get into what’s in these books. Aside from my literal life from about 2001 forward, the poetry and stories and ideas are some of my personal favorites. I simply flipped a few pages here and there. I know how my weekend will be spent.

Praises to all things divine for finally turning my page. It’s been years. I couldn’t be more grateful.

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my hot boyfriend

There’s an ongoing joke between my people and I about my ex husband collection. How I never date, I just get married. I think the last time I had a boyfriend was in high school. So now, finally, at 37 years old – I have a boyfriend. An exceptionally hot boyfriend, in fact.

My boyfriend’s parents are from Italy, he has four siblings like I do and he’s quite fond of the puppies. He and I have plenty of jokes about how I’ve been to Brooklyn more times in the past three weeks than I have in my entire life.


My hot boyfriend smokes nearly a pack a day and talks to me on the phone for hours. He usually calls me four or five times a day. He never texts, and I love that. Sometimes I feel texting is the final demise of language art.

Although I have sent a few ripper texts in my time…

My boyfriend’s name is Anthony. We have the same taste in music. He opens doors and pulls out chairs. He’ll probably read this one day and it will make me blush. I wear his clothes and the secrets between us are so tightly squeezed between my lips that they increase my blood pressure and make my heart beat faster.

And faster.

Anthony is my favorite boy. His essence of everything startles me into silent smiles which he often replies to with, “Everything good, doll?” with this Brooklyn-Italian twang that makes me pant.

The stories and the poetry have kept me completely occupied in ink. We’ve already joked about marriage in a very serious way.

Lucky number three.

But enough of all that talk. Aside from falling in love, being in love and yearning for this piece of perfection that the Universe finally decided it’s time to deliver, I’ve been listening to this:

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brooklyn. still.

Last Friday night I tossed the puppies in a cab and zoomed off to Brooklyn to see someone I haven’t stopped thinking about since the day we met.

I got home Monday morning.

IMG_2634My heart was caged for a long time. I’ve galavanted around briefly with a few suitors, written some poems, fallen in love with the idea of falling in love – over and over.

However, happily, I can finally say that I’m in a place past words. Most of my words recently are being oozed in ink over blank page notebooks or into love letters for a man who is nothing like anyone I have ever known.

Last weekend was magical. I wore beaded bangle bracelets and we strolled up and down the Cony Island boardwalk. We ate oysters and swapped stories.

I’ve always maintained an “everything happens for a reason” perspective, cliche as it sounds. The theory has been tried and tested, and fought with occasionally in my own headspace. But I know it’s the truth.

I feel like the final piece of why I ended up back in New York City fell from the sky about two weeks ago. The thought of it makes my stomach drop and skin glow. It isn’t an erratic “let’s fall in love and be wild” experience that I’ve seen a few times over the past four years. It’s a lull in my soul that I’m still becoming familiar with.

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I always have jokes about Brooklyn. How me traveling outside of Manhattan involves me “leaving the island”. The fact that my world is a cozy four-block radius pocket of midtown; anywhere that I can’t get to on foot is essentially far.

Seldom, I cross waters to visit Brooklyn. I have tribal members in the Williamsburg and Green Point areas. But truth be told, I don’t visit as much as I should.

Now, to everyone’s disbelief, I’ve paired up with a completely stunning, 6’3″, Italian man in Bensonhurst. I’ve been smiling since Friday.

Things are looking up blog family, Brooklyn – who knew?

Friday night he brought me flowers and as he sipped a whiskey at the piano bar downstairs and I enjoyed dirty Belvedere martinis, I already knew I’ve never met anyone like him.

He brought me a blank notebook and pen on our first date, if that’s not love – then I’m still uncertain what is.

We’ve kissed on boardwalks and zoomed in taxi cabs, spring is certainly in the air. At last.

I’m also counting days to Australia after the recent coming and going of one of my favorite people. As the world would have it, my new companion has family in Australia. He’s visited in the past, I’ll likely take him in the future.

In the meantime, he’s been showing me beaches during handheld strolls. He read Poetry Volume Three which I accidentally left at his apartment after an extra tequila shot. I’m funny about my poetry, anyone can read my gritty stories – poetry is a different place for me.

Never the less, it’s approaching 9am. I need to go down the street and write reports for a bit. I hope you all have a blessed Wednesday. x

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how it starts

I bumped my head the night we met and never saw things the same way again.

The second day I saw him, we walked down a boardwalk along a salt-scented Brooklyn coastline. He wore sweatpants and a baseball hat and we talked about him being first generation and me having left for a decade. We comment on the different shades of green blossoms in each other’s eyes. He kisses me at Cony Island, on the subway and all other kinds of pubic places.

“I love that you don’t give a fuck,” he says before shoving his tongue in my mouth while I nearly tip off my bar stool leaning into his clean, tight shave. I end up getting a chin rash from our faces devouring the other and we agree that he’ll shave closer next time.

And then we kiss again, here. And more, there.

We were born in the same year. The year of the horse. We have secrets that we haven’t shared yet, and some that we’ll never tell. Out of respect, we don’t call when the other disappears. Instead, we wordlessly exchange a youthful trust that one of us will always appear again. Somewhere.

He stands better than half a foot above me, and there’s something that melts me when I have to look up that high. When I actually have to tip my head back to focus.

He acts like Italy and sounds like love. He’s a stranger who is my family and when we talk I say things like, “I care about you and your family very much.”

He smells like Paris and dresses like Soho. When he asks, I agree. And that’s how it starts.

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