I Try To Write About

I Miss Us, Too. I Always Have, And Probably Always Will

Evident In Every Small Act Of Kindness, It Was Love As A Verb. Love That Made Me Feel More Complete Than I Had Ever Felt In My Glamorous, Jimmy Choo Filled Past.

The Worst Thing About This Particular End (of My Youth) And The Beginning (of Middle Age) Is That For The First Time In My Life, I Realize I Don't Know Where I'm Going. My Wants Are Simple: A Job That I Like And A Guy Whom I Love. And On The Eve Of My Thirteth, I Must Face That I Am 0 For 2.

I Write About Relationships And I Try To Create Real-life Characters.

Love Is Seldom—almost Never—an Even Proposition. Someone Always Loves More.