I write. I write funny stuff, sad stuff, angry stuff. This is my place to develop my memoir about trauma, to talk about the craft of writing, to rail against the world as it pertains to writers. For money, I write
about restaurants in Austin, Texas, digital copy for companies that really should let me do more progressive and gutsy work.
I live in Brooklyn with my terrific husband who is only 36 but says old-farty things like “I’m just a little blue,” and my mother’s ghost, which lives in the body of a really manipulative terrier.