Anyway, how are you? Tell me something awful and sad, let’s not pretend that we always see the positive. Something in me wants to bleed, and I feel like . . . maybe you do too?

Or, you can tell me something happy. Tell me anything at all. It’s what I’ve been hoping for - not to hear my own voice in this ink, but yours.

I was writing a book. I might still be.  Three years ago I signed up for a “write a bestseller” course as an escape from the day job. I thought I might be the next Liz Gilbert but while I was writing the book, a funny thing happened: I decided to stop measuring my life to my dreams as if they weren’t already the same thing anyway and . . . stopped writing the book.