I once heard someone describe being a writer as essentially being someone who didn’t get invited to the party. And I’ve always resonated with that. There was actually a time in middle school when everyone in my class was invited to one girl’s birthday party, except me. I had no idea why. And what made it worse was my teacher, Mrs. Brookman, noticed this and spoke to the girl’s mom, and then that girl’s mother made her invite me. And I was embarrassed the whole time I was there. This is my life in a nutshell.

At the Rose Books table at the bookfair on Thursday, Chelsea Hodson let me know of a reading Archway Editions was holding on Friday night. And I’ve wanted to see Geoff Rickly read.

Google Maps has its shit together today. I went up Crenshaw then left, then up, then left, then up, did that six more times like tacking a sailboat to Sepulveda. And on to 110, to the 10, another vortex, then Sunset Boulevard. 

My exhaustion is beyond catastrophic.

Nonetheless, I said I was going to go to the Little Engines offsite. And I should at least say hi to some people. 

It’s weird to not be beholden to do anything but still hold yourself to do it. Like writing even when you’re not getting paid for it. And who does that?

My father-in-law, who lives in Los Angeles, always says that we can stay at his house whenever we like. I’m sure he meant all three of us, not just me. With AWP being in LA this year, I considered it. Being the contributing editor I am, I reached out to the great Tobias Carroll, all powerful editor, to see if I could use Vol. 1 Brooklyn as an excuse to get a press pass to skip registration fees, and in exchange, I’d do coverage of AWP for the site.