Recently, a friend told me that I was the gay, male version of Taylor Swift. I agreed, we laughed, and then both promptly ordered another round of mimosas. Okay, that’s not entirely true. This bitch is currently off the sauce—six months and counting. We’ll see how long sobriety lasts, because in these dark and trying times (yes, I’m referring to all of the excess holiday weight I’ve gained), nothing quite comforts me like eighteen dirty martinis. Anyway, I’m not exactly sure what my friend and I ordered another round of, but it’s a safe bet that it was something deep-fried. Me likes my . . .
I don’t often talk about the writing process—more specifically, my writing process—because I don’t find it that interesting. Everyone who writes has a different process; there is no right way or wrong way to write. As long as words somehow magically get down onto the paper, then the process is working. Simply put: If it helps you write, do it. If it doesn’t help you write, don’t do it. End of story. I write every single day. Well, try to write every single day. Fine! I have the intention to write every single day. So far, that seems to be working. I’ve managed to somehow write numerous . . .