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!

Ten years ago, when I was 45, I spent $40,000 in six months, and not to buy a car. I spent it on Italian clothes – Missoni, Etro, a sublime Dolce & Gabbana leopard pencil skirt. I acquired delicate Louboutins, dominatrix-y Viviers, swoon-worthy perfumes. My long, luxurious hair got highlighted and blown out regularly.

“The last forty pages are the best part of the book.”

“The last third of the book should be cut. The best part of your story is your fiancé’s death. Not sure why the rest is there.”

“There is too much about how you feel. It’s too interior. We need more scenes.”