I’m a writer with nothing to write about
Except dancing on an Alphabet City bar stage to Salt n Pepa, posing outside of Irish Exit because “we’re 21 now…wait, we’re 23,” losing the head of a screwdriver to the cork on the inside of a wine bottle, and that guy from OKCupid who said, “If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.”
Okay, okay. I have a ton to write about, but life/Lord Scott Disick has been throwing curveballs in the form of four-hour open bars, 15-hour work days, 24-hour stomach bugs and a vicious cycle of never-ending Netflix queues.
And I’ve been a little weepy. It is baseball season, right?
Consider this a “To Be Continued,” with tales of life, (perusing dating websites for) love, meeting an old friend’s four-week old baby for the first time and a five-year high school reunion (YEP. THAT’S A THING.) to come.
Cheers (I’m not dead, just a little busy living).
Oh, my, if you have to write, meaning publish, unlike that private journal … sometimes the advice is to translate, from long tongue to another. Or my advice would be to review books you think deserve attention … especially in the self-published, indie, ebook vein I’m pursuing.
Just to say, all these years later. Best of luck.