The novelty of being able to escape to my parents’ crib in the forest to rework my words and adjust how my head is screwed on, any time at my leisure, makes me very happy.

I spent seven years with a 10 000 mile gap. Ninety minutes travel these days ain’t nothin.

I met someone from Turkey yesterday and we discussed what it’s like when you leave your entire family for a whole new country on your own. It’s one of those topics where, when you find someone else that’s done it, you immediately begin gesticulating wildly with wider eyes.

Writers often make comments about their secluded lifestyles, hours spent in solitude plugging away. I can easily fall into patterns like this. And to be true, the middle line is where I like to be. I don’t mind solitude, and we all know how I love my crowds… but give me something to write with and plop me in a corner where a small window of life containing approximately three to six humans occurs, I’m happiest.

I can’t help but figure this comes from growing up in a house of seven…

Australia, Connecticut, and New York City might as well be separate planets from one another. I’m still determined that somehow I can work as a Writer and balance myself between all three places. However focus remains: NYC or Bust.