Editor in chief of Specter. Occasional writer. Obligated by law to mention Brooklyn residence.

Anonymous asked:
When have you ever brought joy into someone's life?

probably whenever i had to call tyrone…to help me get my shit.

Anonymous asked:
Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

answering this exact same question in 5 years.

but with a published book or two.

and my degree (finally).

and probably with some miniature version of me.

and probably still in NYC (but probably not).

Anonymous asked:
If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be and why?

at this exact moment? south jersey. or some remote location in the midwest. why? because neither of those places are NYC.

Anonymous asked:
How many people are you in love with... currently?

hey now, anon…

Anonymous asked:
Would you know if you have met your soulmate? Do you them you have met him/her?

i honestly don’t know. while i haven’t discarded the notion of a “soulmate,” i am reconsidering its meaning (to me, anyway). i’m a writer. i get to play with definitions. poetic license and such.

Anonymous asked:
do you think you could be monogamous?

this question suggests that i haven’t been monogamous. i’ve written about infidelities, that much is true. but yes, i do think so. i have been, with varying degrees of success.


The prevailing belief is that when one is single, you answer to no one but yourself. This sounds nice, like all truisms, and, with flowery, declarative language, this belief could take the shape of a quotable note reblogged and retweeted endlessly throughout the ether, echoing within this quasi-universe. But what feels right, and sounds true at first, grows in complexity relative to reality. 

Memories stab, and words reverberate, and silences stick to walls. It is the natural order of humanity to never forget, but merely pretend it never happened. Pretenses are flimsy objects, weak, though beguiling, illusions. You might fool others but you can never fool yourself. Because when friends disappear into the shadows of their lives, and the boozy haze akin to pleasurable moments fade into a dull headache, the quiet times come hot through the door, guns brandished, and…what can you do but throw your hands up and surrender?


By request, I unearthed a picture of myself taken in the past—archeological evidence of a history I struggle to reveal unless swaddled by an essay’s confines. I hadn’t seen the picture in years. In it, I was 25. The smile was a lie—the file’s timestamp indicated that the self-portrait occurred during my first depressive episode.

I was 25. Scared. Broken.

The photo reveals nothing of that time: the hope in my eyes refused to give away the reality that each day, I wanted to bash my head into the bathroom mirror, and I drove like a maniac, and I held knives to my veins, and peace was a closing remark I said out of habit when a phone call ended.

Depression is the death of one’s future; recovery is resuscitation. Live in the present, my nascent Buddhist beliefs suggest. Cool. But god help the human who loses all sight and concept of tomorrow.


I write beautiful, meaningful sentences—I say this because I’ve worked so hard to find the right way to convey the outlines of life and love and despair, my holy trinity—but Roberto Bolaño’s 2666 is teaching me what it means to write beautiful, meaningful books.

This book should not exist. It is a sprawling, massive, maddening project. It is bound by some incomprehensible brilliance. It is repulsive. It is disquieting. It swats away the notion of “beautiful sentences.” I have consumed 400 pages, and I have 400 more to go. Pages to go before I sleep.


My writing has been described as “dark.” It was never meant to be this way. I was 16 when I started to write.

I was in love for the first time, which is to say, I made a fool of myself for a girl who made a fool of herself for me and we, fools, almost shipwrecked our futures. I wrote her poems. I wrote her stories. I acquired the taste for journaling and within these secret pages, I often wrote, without a grasp of the necessary language, about my love for her. I wanted to know her. Know her past. Wanted my ear next to her lips when she taught me Spanish. We were kids. Precocious and destructive kids with guns. I bought her earrings; she used her car to whisk me away from that god awful burial ground of a house I lived in, where my parents’ marriage died, and the silence stuck to the walls whispered depression but I didn’t listen, couldn’t listen. I was sad all of the time. I was lonely. I kept my eyes on a gray future increasingly hidden behind the gaussian blur, and I heard wolves rapping at the door for the first time. Something was out to get me. But I loved her. And she loved me. And from time to time, we shrugged at condoms. Got caught up. Got caught out there. A life created, a life lost. And when I’m asked if I have kids, I say “no” without further explanation. My writing is now “dark.” It was always meant to be this way.

I am 33. And pages to go before I sleep.