The biggest decision is where to start. Jaipur, for hand-embroidered paisley cashmere shawls that add glamour to a simple black dress? Istanbul for statement jewelry that slays, investment-quality rugs and perfect linens? Or Venice, for a Murano glass chandelier and as much velvet and Fortuny silk as a girl can handle?

It’s 3:00 a.m. on a Monday morning. I’m lying in bed in my one bedroom rental apartment in San Francisco. I left my lucrative tech industry job six months ago and am living on savings until my business takes off.

It’s weird writing about yourself. On the one hand, I feel as compelled to write about the fierce opposites in my life as I did about finding a way to live with them.

When your deepest desires contradict each other, life is confusing.

The next morning, the barest hint of dawn through my uncovered windows wakes me. I smell the remnants of my Diptyque Pomander candle before I open my eyes. I turn my head toward the window and, drowsy and semi-conscious, am immersed in exquisite beauty.

Trying to build a career as a writer feels, at least to me, like climbing a mountain in dense fog.

How big is ‘I’m a writer’ mountain? How many miles do I have to climb before I can see the summit? How steep is the mountain? Are there places to stop and rest? Are there dangerous crevasses where I might fall and break my neck? Will there be trail signs to help me find my way? Will anyone else be on the trail so I don’t always have to climb alone? Will I ever attain the summit? And if I do, will it turn out that the summit is just the base of an even bigger mountain??

When I got my first job in public relations at 25, I was proud and terrified to be starting a real profession. I had come to New York City at 21 on a round trip plane ticket from Los Angeles that was my college graduation present.

I didn’t take the return flight.

When my voice teacher Whitney Nichole asked me to make a list of songs I was sure I could never sing, I gave her a list of raw blues vocals by Beth Hart and Ettta James and soul anthems by the great master Aretha Franklin – songs I knew I couldn’t access with my classically trained voice. Whitney’s immediate response was, “OK, choose one and let’s sing it.” Damn it. I walked right into that one. 

“Wha??,” I said, stuttering. My whole spine, every organ in my body and even the hairs on my head were all screaming NO!