2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,800 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 30 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

That Bearded Dude

Saturday mornings, I typically frequent my favorite Upper West Side diner. Sitting with a cup of coffee, I often wondered if I would ever find romance. Grindr, Tinder, & Okcupid, I was on every dating site. Yet, I couldn’t even get a handshake from perspective dates.

Something peculiar happened when I left for a holiday in Portland. I met a guy, at a gay bar. I only happened to travel 2,454 miles to find him. On my last night in Portland, we sat across from each other at a wine bar, which could easily fit in (New York’s) West Village.

It was utterly romantic and terribly cliché. “Hey do you wanna go to Voodoo donuts,” he asked. Secretly, I did want to go. Rather than playing it cool, I shook my head with great enthusiasm.

Noshing on maple-bacon donuts, I glared into the pavement. It was gritty and grungy, the great 90’s alternative rock bands would approve. While eating our hearty donuts, we decided to take the plunge. I experienced some fear, since it had been a while. He grabbed my hand and led me to a dark den with glowing lights.

I know what you’re thinking this isn’t a romance novel, is it? Correct, we didn’t end up some seedy hotel room, but in a video game arcade. It was the boozy, 21 and over arcade, naturally. We competed with each other on various video games.

As expected, I really sucked at shooting ducks and driving racecars. Continually, he beat me in every game. I hated loosing. In my defense, I hadn’t played a video game, since the Clinton administration.

Sensing my frustration with continual loses, he grabbed and kissed me. In the midst of pinball machines and Japanese pop music, I fell for a guy in the most unexpected of places.

We took a walk alongside gritty Burnside, holding hands. Then we came to an obvious, but shocking fact. “What are we going to do now? It’s your last night. I live in Portland. You live in New York, but I’ve never felt this way about a guy before,” asked my beloved, Oregonian.

Frustrated, I had fallen off the puffy cloud of fantasy. In the echoing sounds of street musicians and wind speeds, I grew dumbfounded. “That’s right, we just happened to have a whole continent, separating us,” I said, with relative sarcasm.

It was a terribly emotional moment. “Why couldn’t I’ve met this guy in New York? I wish he would just move in with me.” The awkwardness grew. Rather than dwell on specifics, we reveled our last night together.

Toward the end of the evening, I walked him to the Max (the Portland streetcar). It arrived, too quickly. Giving him one last kiss, I bid him, farewell. It was truly the end of a spectacular holiday.

The next day, I was riding in a cab to Portland International Airport. I received a text, “You’re complicated, but I adore you” he wrote. Giggling, I wrote back, “It takes a complicated guy to know a complicated guy. I adore you too.” He sent a smile-y face.

Taking in a deep breath, I stared at his picture. “If this is actually true romance, I’ll be seeing you again soon,” I declared with confidence. I arrived at the airport, hoped on a plane and left my heart in Portland.

The Raindrops of Portland

Fun-employment was a miserable, but (surprisingly) exciting era for me. After interviewing for countless jobs in New York and not garnering a new position, I decided to nourish my bohemian roots.

Rather than dwell on what I didn’t have, I focused on art, writing and experiencing a new culture. Although, I couldn’t afford to climb the Himalayas, play on Rio de Janeiro’s beaches, or walk the Great Wall of China, I opted for a grand bohemian retreat on the West Coast.

After experiencing too much sun in my native California, I longed for rain, lots of rain, and bacon, lots of bacon with a tasty brew, of course. As my plane took off to Portland, I tear nearly ran down my cheek. “Repeat after me, rain, rain, rain, coffee, coffee, coffee, bacon, so much bacon and plenty of cute bearded men,” said my quirky brain.

Predictably, I was met with rain, upon arrival at Portland airport. The drops were so massive. They practically needed their own zip code. Delighted with the puffy clouds and rain, I made my way into the rain-slicked pavement.

Food carts were clustered together on SW Washington Street. My stomach rumbled. While dashing toward the den of food porn, I was presented with a curious situation.

“Blood, blood, blood, I hate blood. Oy, I couldn’t be a doctor, since I am terrified of my own blood.” Said I. On the road to curing a rumbling tummy, I slipped on the rain soaked sidewalk and scrapped my knee.

Running back to my hotel, I screamed “disappointment.” I was shocked to have slipped on my first hour in Portland. A part of me wanted to stay in the hotel room and just cry over a minor injury. Instead, the warrior and adventurer in me prevailed.

I placed a bandage over my knee, and merrily walked back to the sidewalk. Rather than crying, I ventured to Powell’s Books (world’s biggest book shop) for some much needed book therapy.

Growing lost in the rain, I had a terrible time finding the legendary bookshop. Even though, Portland was on a grid, I was lost. Finally, I decided to actually ask for directions.

“Burnside divides SW Portland from NW Portland,” said the kind Oregonian. With her help, I finally found my bearings on the directions. From a distance, I saw Powell’s Bookstore.

It was one of those places in the West Coast; I’d always wanted to visit. When I flung the doors open, my mouth open wide. Powell’s Bookstore fit every adjective associated with the word, huge. Books upon books lined shelves. They towered to the ceiling. It was a cathedral dedicated to the written word.

Feeling like a seven-year old running around the world’s greatest toyshop, I gleefully read excerpts from my favorite authors. I also discovered local authors. Buying books on Maya Angelou and Gertrude Stein, I felt well accomplished.

Leaving Powell’s bookstore was difficult, since I always felt there was more to explore. The rain intensified and I had forgotten about my previous slip. Instead, I found great joy in exploring Portland and getting immersed in the dizzying array of Pacific Northwest-ness. It was the ideal bohemian retreat.

Pacific Northwest

Portland is ideal for a sweater appreciative crowd. Raindrops, grey skies, hills with mighty pine trees, coffee shops and crisp winds, make sweater shopping a treat

At the shrine to vintage fashion, the Buffalo Exchange, I met my match. In a sea of skinny jeans, flannel shirts, and denim jackets, I found my dream sweater. While trying to hold back my lust, I stared at the sweater.

It was black wool, with an interesting edgy thread design. More importantly, it fit my frugal budget. “Oh, this sweater is so edgy, and would go wonderful with a button-up shirt and tie,” said I.

Hours later, I prepared for a night on the town. While coordinating outfits, the fashion gods played a cruel trick on me. “Shit, I left all my ties at home, now my outfit scheme has been ruined,” said I.

This folks is another edition of first world problems, brought to you by the glorious first world. Rather than crying, I went out to dinner and didn’t shed a tear over my missing ties.

Portland has always been famous for it’s love of bacon and coffee. Naturally, I had bacon and coffee for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Afterwards, I took an enchanting walk alongside Portlandia’s quiet, but charming pavements.

“Whisky, whisky, whisky,” said my thirsty brain. The flashing lights of a gay bar welcomed me. Only, I was intimidated by the thought of drinking alone at a gay bar. Persistently, my brain kept singing the “ I want whisky song.”

With thirst ravishing my soul, I said, “fuck you” to intimidation and bolted toward Embers, a downtown gay bar. It was a quiet night. Drag queens wandered around, ready for (as expected) a drag revue. Others sat with friends and enjoyed a beer.

Ordering a whisky on the rocks, I quenched my thirsty soul. Glancing over, I noticed an adorable blond guy, sitting opposite me. He wore a tie and shirt. I was charmed by his appearance. Impure thoughts raced through my head. “Gee, I bet he has a great tie collection.”

Avoiding intimidation, I took a seat next to him. Introducing myself, I was expecting him not to respond, positively. Then our eyes locked. “Shit, he’s cute, uh-oh, somebody cue the simply cheesy pop tunes.” Repeatedly, “Honey,” by Mariah Carey capitalized on the romantic moment.

“I want to take you on a surprise adventure,” he said. I shook my head in agreement and off we went into the chilly, Portland night. Unexpectedly, I was struck in the head. It was okay, since it was Cupid striking my head with an arrow.

With bravery in my heart, I kissed him. We locked eyes. It was magic. His surprise adventure, you ask? It was a trip to the video game arcade, which had a long cue. Instead, we went out for pizza and more boozy adult beverages.

There was a mystery, which dumbfounded me about him. “Shit, I don’t know what his name is?” As we spoke in detail about our lives and struggles, I kept trying to brainstorm cleaver ways to find out his name.

As the night wrapped up, I handed him my phone. “Here, put your info on here,” said I. It worked and I never forgot his name again. Even after kissing him goodbye at the bus stop, we kept in touch.

A few days later, he spoke to me with seductive words. “I hope you like pork, I am going to make you bacon mac n’ cheese and ribs,” he said. Unlike myself, he loved to cook. Hence, I was invited over for a home cooked dinner.

After the lavish feast, we relaxed on the couch and watched Troop Beverly Hills. On a very chilly December evening, I was charmed by a fellow, who I was falling for and he could cook.

In the grand scheme of gay dating, bacon, sweaters and a fancy tie are the way to a man’s heart. Cheers to Portland for all the bacon, I’ve consumed and the lovely fellow, I have met.

Hiking In A Cardigan

In old New York, a boy from Harlem randomly ended up on the Upper East Side. With deep seeded lust in his heart, he took a riveting plunge.

“Everything bagel, cream cheese and lox; Oh and also a small coffee,” said I, standing at a quintessentially New York deli. I took a bite of New York’s most beloved nosh, and glared into Lexington Avenue.

“Oh boy, I feel like a modern day bohemian, going on this big expedition out west, “ said I. As the fusion of cream cheese and salty lox seduced my tongue, I nearly melted.

“Gee, I will miss the bagels here. However, when I return to New York, I’ll be filled to the brim with fabled tales of Portland and California,” said I with great illusion.

Afterwards, I reveled in Gotham’s revered wind chill. “I’m freezing. I’m freezing, but I feel so Jackie O’, strolling in the Upper East Side, all dolled up.” Said I, marveling at Madison Avenue’s opulent shops.

I took the scenic route, crosstown. Central Park always represented tourists and crowded fields of green. While walking around the park’s many reservoirs, precious trails and nearly barren trees, I finally marveled at it’s green charms, but something distracted me.

“90’s alternative rock (with the sounds of Nirvana, the Cranberries & Everclear, naturally), cute bearded men, coffee, rain & more rain were thoughts, which dominated my head.

You’re probably saying, “hey Mr. New York. You could you get that shit in Brooklyn or the East Village. To you, I respond with this. There’s just something special about having those things in Portland, a new frontier for this cardigan wearing, Uptown boy.

After reaching 96th street, I strolled into Central Park West. “ Goodbye, Central Park and hello, west-coast style laid back-ness, said I. Somewhere between New York and Portland’s cloudy skies, the sun arose.

Indeed, I was in the beginning stages of my trip out west. Sitting at a Starbucks in Riverside (my hometown), I continued writing my novel. Only, the words weren’t flowing like a river. They were dried by the valley’s penetrating sunrise.

Feeling like a failure, I longed for New York. “Maybe, I can only write in New York City?” I asked myself. Regret filled my heart as I questioned taking such a long voyage.

Like any proper author, I let my mind go on vacation. It needed a Pina Colada and burrito in order to function, once again. After taking a few days off, I drove to a local coffee shop and sat. Once again, I couldn’t write. The words were not flowing.

Panicking, I took another drive. “I’ll never finish my novel, never. New York, I miss you,” were my exact words. While parading around Downtown Riverside’s historic district, I found a bit of Brooklyn. “Oh, this coffee shop is wonderful. It could easily fit in New York,” said I.

Blasting some retro tunes, I sipped on a coffee and the cloudy skies returned. “Hello, konishiwa and bonjour, inspiration,” said I. Happily, I returned to novel writing after a brief hiatus. It was sweeter than the chocolate chip cookie, which accompanied my caffeine fix.

Excitedly, I wrote, everyday. Thank you, Riverside for providing me with a bit of New York in the suburban sprawl. Dearest, Portland, crank up your 90’s grunge rock, I’ll be in you soon.

Dress Your Bear In Flannel

The birds chirped. Leaves pranced merrily along the pavement. Echoing winds accentuated a charming portrait of the town hamlet.

“Wait, town hamlet? This is the East Village. How is it so eerily quiet and peaceful on Tuesday afternoon?” asked I. Strolling up Avenue A, I avoided jamming to music and savored in the lack of background noise.

My inner Walt Whitman, Ezra Pound & James Joyce, longed to write exquisite poetry. Artistically, I pulled out my journal. Taking in a deep breath, I longed to scribble down beautiful words, which described my great time of need.

Instead, a monster jumped out of the bushes and slaughtered my attention span. “Oh shit, I was going to write the next “Leaves of Grass,” but I think I’ll go on Facebook, instead. Everyone on Facebook land is just dying to see (more) marvelous photos of a traditional Northeast fall,” said I.

“I’ll write the next Leaves of Grass right after this next status update,” said I. Instead of amusing the world with witty banter and funky photos, I messaged one of my best friends.

Rather than talking of beautiful scenery, I broke down through Facebook messenger. “I’m still unemployed and can’t find a job,” wrote I, with tears, which mirrored a monsoon season.

“You should go spend December in California. It’s going to be slow here, in regards to finding work,” she wrote back. As I stared across the East River with Queens & Brooklyn glistening in the sun, emotion ran rampant. “I’ll consider it,” I wrote.

Instantly, I daydreamed of taking the dream trip to Portland along with visiting my dad in California. “I could drink organic coffee, grow a beard, jam to my favorite 90’s alternative band, hike in lovely cardigans and it’s only a two hour flight from my hometown,” said I.

As soon as I daydreamed of California and Portland, the city dazzled me again. Pretty window displays, high fashion, and frosty weather enticed the senses. I didn’t want to miss out on the holiday season.

“Fuck it,” said I. That very evening, I booked my ticket to the left coast. I lost the fear of missing out on New York-ness (which I have experienced countless times before) and was headed to old familiar, California and the new flannel, loving frontier, Portland.

My bohemian retreat commenced, a few days later. I stuffed my favorite cardigans, sweaters and pea coats into a carry-on, ready to be paraded around Portland.

Taking another gander at my apartment, I declared, “See you on January 1st, New York. When I comeback, I’ll have a journal filled with new stories,” said I, confidentially. Channeling Ernest Hemingway, I set off for a new literary adventure. Waving good-bye to the Manhattan skyline, I was ready to re-conquer the West Coast.

A Lonely Heartbeat

“I think we’re alone now (the Tiffany version, obviously)” is my favorite song to perform at Karaoke. With my vocal cords, I could empty out any room. Literally, it’s that sweet and magical.

As an only child (thanks mother & father), I cherish my alone time. Living in Manhattan, people are always around me. Hence, I’m never quite alone. In fact, I don’t remember having a quiet moment, in years.

When temperature took a frosty dip, I reveled in emptier sidewalks. On a usually chilly Friday night, I took my favorite evening stroll. Commencing at Astor Place, I took a splendid walk though the East Village. Crossing Houston and then Delancy, New York wonders delighted me. Coffee shops, hip window displays, and exotic restaurants seduced my heart.

“Darling, I know you want Texas BBQ, Indian culinary delights, and a key lime pie from Veniero’s, but you’re unemployed,” said the accountant, who resided in the left side of my brain.

I experienced a great deal of self-control. After another magnificent and very frugal date night with myself, I took the 3 train to Manhattan’s North Pole, Harlem.

The train grew progressively empty. By the time, it reached 96th Street, (literally) everyone had exited the subway car. I was left alone without a single, living, breathing soul experiencing the subway’s charm. “This is awkward. I never had a whole subway car to myself,” declared I.

With a bit of quirk and imagination, I brainstormed all the creative shit I could get away with, alone. “Tap dancing, a one-man act play, performance art, and even yelling, fuck, super duper loud. This is what I can do with my own private performance space,” said I.

Yet, my brain was gassy. Hello, brain farts. Instead of coming up with lavish performance ideas, I reveled in the obvious. Finally, I have alone time. The most riveting fact was avoiding to these following individuals:

–  break dancers

-Preachers, who will destroy your ear drum with the wrath of hell.

-men who open their legs so wide, they take up two seats

-crying babies and kids, yelling for no fucking reason

The subway reached Harlem. Miraculously, I was still the only passenger in the subway car. “Dear, gods of public transportation, I could live without cameo appearances, just let me enjoy this alone time, which never happens,” prayed I, staring into the clouds above.

Three stops later, I exited. Tears of joy flowed down my rosy cheeks. “ Shit, this was the equivalent of riding first class on a plane. I better not get to used to it,” thought, I. Marveling at my stroke of luck, I celebrated by drinking a Dunkin Donuts coffee (this is called Coffee & Cardigans for a reason).

Finally, I achieved having alone time in the city, outside of my apartment. I felt Barbara Streisand, winning an Oscar for Funny Girl. Note to my non-New York friends, never enter an empty subway car; it’ll only destroy all sense of smell. After another spectacular subway story, I leave you with that song, “I think we’re alone now” in honor of my exciting night out.

The Mighty, Mighty Conqueror

“Christmas, Christmas time is here,” sang Alvin, Simon and Theodore (the Chipmunks). Indeed, New York City’s temperature dipped into wintertime campiness by mid November. Twinkling lights dominated Columbus Circle. Shops capitalized in the pre-holiday cheer with lavish window displays. New Yorkers defrosted with cozy cups of hot chocolate.

In the midst of cheer and campy Christmas music, there was a cameo appearance by one aggressive, Scrooge. “Hey, that’s my cab. I got here first, said I.” On an unseasonably cold November evening, I battled for a cab. Like the great William the Conqueror and his Norman Conquest, I planned to win the battle.

As I shivered on the corner of Fourteenth and Avenue A, I stared at my nemesis, (who also held on to the cab door.). “Holy shit,” said I, internally. He was incredibly handsome, all decked out in a tuxedo. I thought to myself, “wow, this guy really makes me look like a laid-back surfer. He’s really dolled up.”

We both held on to the cab door. “Are you going uptown too?” I asked. He shook his head, yes. “Let’s share a cab,” I suggested. He agreed and we took the voyage, uptown.

Secretly, I hopped this would turn into my holiday cuddle buddy. With liquid courage, I took one brave step in conquering the world for gays, everywhere. “Where are you off to?” I asked. He answered a friend’s wedding at the Palace Hotel. He looked distracted by his phone.

While we heading up First Avenue, I asked the most riveting question. “ Are you gay or straight?” asked I. Without blinking an eye, he answered, “straight.” My face went blank, “So much for cuddling with the guy in the well tailored tux,” declared I.

After arriving at the opulent Palace Hotel, my former conquest leaped out of the cab and gave me money for his portion of the ride. I was slightly disappointed, but “shit, at least I wasn’t rejected for obvious reasons. No regrets,” said I.

I arrived at my cozy apartment in Harlem. With one phone call, I delighted in that single thirty-something tradition of ordering Chinese food and enjoying an indie film, alone. The icy winds blew through the city, while Wonton soup warmed my heart.

I might have been single, but I was okay with that. This the cheerful season to wear my cute sweaters, while blasting Christmas music, twenty-four/seven. Let the lights twinkle and leave some cookies for Santa. The campy holidays are finally here, with or without romance.

 

Hello, Yellow Brick Road

In my early twenties, I was young, broke, and living in Astoria, Queens. From the edge of Astoria Park, I glared across the East River at Manhattan.

“One day, I will have conquer you, “ said I. Astoria was the place I longed to escape. I had a romanticized image of living in the alluring city. Manhattan was hip, glamorous, and very cultured. Therefore, I made it my life’s mission to call Manhattan, home.

Years later, I finally moved to Manhattan. On an icy March morning, I settled into an elevator building in the east twenties, which overlooked Queens. My existence in the city had every charming component, imaginable.

Then, I hoped on a hot air balloon ride, which eventually burst over Central Park (the hot balloon, a metaphor for unemployment). I fell face forward. Like any tough, resilient New Yorker, I dusted myself off and paraded on Fifth Avenue.

With turbulent times came feelings of isolation. As an intense grey engulfed my Uptown bubble, I longed for a temporary exodus. I hopped on the M60 bus from my current life in Harlem to the good ol’ days in Astoria.

Off I went across the Triboro Bridge. The Bronx’s red brick project buildings, Manhattan’s skyline, and the calming waters of the East River dominated my eyes. While on the bus, I thought of my old neighbor, Tony.

I really hoped to see him on this trip to the old neighborhood. When we first met, he was enjoying laughs with our neighbors on the stoop. He was a blue collar, native New Yorker with the accent to prove it. With a wicked sense of humor, he could charm the most jaded of folks.

The night we met, I had a date with this random guy, a few blocks away. “Can I walk you to the corner?” he asked. I shook my head, yes. Sensing some insecurity on my part, he uttered the following, “you look beautiful.” With a surprise stare, I thought to myself, “wow, this is one open minded straight guy.”

In the midst of a quiet block of brick and candy colored homes, he drew me close. Intense winds blew from the East River. With one quick swoop, he kissed me.

“I am gay,” he said. In a bit of shock, I just smiled in awe. “You’re gorgeous, have fun on your date, tonight,” he said. Walking away into Queen’s darkened, but charming sidewalks, he left.

The date went well, but nothing romantic came from it. Instead, Tony and I formed a strong bond. I missed him terribly, when I left Queens. Then, the bus finally arrived in Astoria.

The change of scenery was a very warm welcome. The charming borough felt like home again. Immediately, I walked toward my old apartment building. The row houses and brick apartment buildings retained their cozy charm.

From the distance, I saw a blue baseball cap. “Oh, please tell me that’s Tony,” I whispered to myself. It wasn’t. Disappointingly, I had to face the awful pangs of truth.

“Tony is really gone,” I declared. He had died almost two years ago. Naively, I wanted to believe he was still watering his mother’s rose gardens and handing me new coupons, he had just clipped. His death seemed more real, but there was closure.

Holding back emotion, I could hear Tony’s witty banter. “Just enjoy your life, buddy,” he would tell me. Remembering his favorite neighborhood spot, I walked over to glorious Astoria Park.

The peace and quiet of my old neighborhood was a refreshing change from Manhattan’s frenetic pace. It still retained the quaintness, which was further characterized by cozy fall skies.

Finally, I reached Astoria Park. The leaves colored the green grounds with leave of yellow, pink, and rogue. From the vantage point, I once declared my future move to Manhattan, I really had returned.

Although, my life across the East River turned into a parallel universe, full of uncertainty, I felt a great deal of peace. I sat on a bench and turned my uncertainty into a sense of adventure. With great confidence, I walked to the subway and returned to Manhattan.

Descending up into East Village madness, I felt part of a very busy anthill. Albeit, a very hip and fashionable anthill, indeed. I longed for a bit of peace and quite, once again. While walking to my favorite coffee shop, I was reminded of Astoria and especially, Tony.

Even though, that era had ended, it provided me with endless happy memories. In fact, when I couldn’t find enough campy Broadway musicals to sing, I would just think of my old home borough. Instantly, it lifted my spirits. Queens, I never thought I’d say this, but “I think I fancy you.”

Duck, Duck, Goose

It’s another adventure in fun-employment land. This edition is brought to you by those institutions, television shows and cafes, which distract the soul. Your contribution is greatly appreciated. Now on to today’s story.

Feeling like New York gave me a swift kick in the tuckus (ass), I wandered around Nolita. High fashion, cupcakes shops, and pricey walk-ups were quite lovely to look at, even on a budget.

While feeling quite blue and ready to break into an operatic performance, I ditched the stage of Lincoln Center for an anti-depressant. Naturally, this anti-depressant came in the form of a bookshop.

“Hello, Ernest Hemingway, Dorothy Parker, James Joyce, Jack Kerouac and yes, even J.D. Salinger, “said I. Intoxicated by the sweet bookshop scent, I browsed the titles. Taking a step back, I admired the perfectly organized books and shed a tear.

Somebody cue Simon & Garfunkel’s “hazy shade of winter,” please. Inspiration flowed through my blood stream. Armed with my laptop, I dashed to my favorite East Village coffee shop. After finding a cozy table, I made a major life decision. “Oh yes, I will join the National Write a novel in 30 days contest,” said I.

Opening up my laptop, I took a gulp of coffee. For months, I had daydreamed the idea of this particular novel. Even with a sizable amount of time, daydreaming, that first blank page was terrifying. Rather, than overly intellectualizing my dilemma, a voice spoke to me. It was my novel’s protagonist.

“Have you heard of GOYA? Asked the voice. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head, “no.” His intensity grew. It means “Get off your ass, if you want to start writing a novel, go ahead and do it. Don’t worry about writer’s block, I shall lead the way,” he said.

Rather than pressuring myself to write the next Less than Zero or Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, I simply let my protagonist guide me through an expedition. Like going on a proper field trip, he took me on an adventure, Indiana Jones would envy. Soon, I wrote my first few pages of the novel.

Departing the coffee shop, I was liberated with power of the written word. Soon, my protagonist and I became best friends. He spoke to me in the most random of places. The whole city became a personalized creative space.

“Would I finish this novel by the end of November?” Asked I. My character, responded with a proper, “who knows, who cares” answer. In the meantime, I reveled in a novel writing adventure, which beats a trek up the Himalayas, any day.

 

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