Since cracking off this web-ville in 2009, I’ve seen (and written about) a lot going down.

I’ve also had the privilege to watch a collection of my fellow wordsmiths get the bindings they’ve been chasing, with their name printed across, scattered around bookshelves all over the place.

That, to me, is very special. Self-publishing gave me the same tingles as I observed strangers plucking up my pages to indulge in my poetry. It meant a lot to me, as a Writer and as a human creature in general.

However, regular readers know – I don’t chase agents or publishers. Maybe I should? I’ve never had it in me. I did, however, chase a Writer’s life. I knew there was nothing else I could settle for doing. I once briefly considered teaching writing, during my very young years when I was running waterfalls of possibilities through my mind figuring out how to survive on Earth – I decided against it. Number one I don’t think the best writing is taught, number two – I’m not a teacher like that.

Professionally, my writing has brought me everywhere from foreign government to Wall Street. And I’ve never had to worry about anyone saying, “No thanks, we don’t like what you say, we’ll pass…”

Instead, I have a lovely global group who pays for my apartment in midtown Manhattan as long as I show up a few hours a day and write.

Notably, I’m not a journalist. Shout out newspaper and magazine people, again – not my thing.

Considering I spend so much time dating men that don’t deserve my time, sometimes I lose sight of what I have achieved as a Writer – which is fucking incredible, actually.

As I continue to wash off the last one, I’m realigning myself for┬ámy, personal next chase – Sperlonga.

No matter how much he hurt me, ever since he took me to Italia – I haven’t been the same since. I appreciate that, at least.