My greatest fear during my college years, besides that I was a horrible person who was failing in my life, was that I was utterly transparent to everyone around me. I was unable to interpret myself – my contradictions overwhelmed me. I had no idea what to do with all of that chaotic energy.

Writers need to read. 

How do you learn to communicate the tender details of grief? You read how other writers have done it. How do you deftly present dialogue? You notice the craft in essays you love. How do you learn to paint vivid descriptions with words? You read a ton of descriptions other writers have written. When an image on the page blows you away, you go back and read it again and again to dissect how and why it works. 

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.