There was a period in my life when I felt like an utter failure. Like so many others I’d migrated to Los Angeles with every intention of being a star. A rock star. That’s how naïve I was. I tried, got tantalizingly close to the fabled brass ring but not close enough. I fell into a downward spiral of drug abuse and toxic marriage. I regretted not possessing the required killer instinct, the inability to hustle. To succeed.
I did emerge, miraculously intact and entered into a new mode; fully engaged as a cultural worker, coordinating events and plugged into a vibrant arts community. I came home. I had a baby. I published my first book. I may not have had much of an interior life but was heartened to learn that my creative life wasn’t over, that I’m capable of reinvention, of putting things-including my struggles and disappointments-into perspective.
These days I’m just as ambitious but armed with the knowledge I possess the ability to adapt, even transcend. And grateful to have lived to tell the tale in one of my books, The Town Slut’s Daughter.