Last month I finished my undergraduate at The New School. Life is now a tricky experiment to see how long my anxiety will propel me (and my writing) before it's time to apply for grad school.  

For the past year, I've had no dedicated space to write. I wrote on crowded Subways, tiny cafes, rickety ferries. But never in a dedicated room, with a door, and a desk all my own. 

Last week, when I returned home from a holiday trip to Texas, I dropped my suitcase and dragged everything out of my 4x6 closet. I ordered a tiny folding desk and a stool, and in-between my winter sweaters and rain boots, I set up my new writing nook.  

Now each morning I wake up a few hours before work and settle in for my morning writing routine. Some days I stare at the blank wall ahead of me, daydreaming about eating chocolate or moving to Cairo. Others, I journal. Today is Saturday. Shmoopy is napping on my lap, Ben is out for a run, and I'm writing this until I can't, and then I'll journal, and edit the piece on mental illness and family that I hope to submit for my monthly workshop.

I have settled into my job at The Crime Victims Treatment Center, and working on the balance between my creative life, and professional. I have one long-form essay out on submission, and another seventy-four half-written pieces in the works. It's a bit like square dancing.

Life is both settled and unresolved, which is how I prefer it. 

Currently reading Exile by Belen Fernandez. 

This "now" page was inspired by one of my favorite humans, Derek Sivers.

This page was last updated January 11, 2020.