Before 11 pm, still happy from my meal at the Crow's Nest, I slid into the bubbly rectangle in the cave, the water rising up to my chin. I then got up to my waist in the heated pool, then I told Edward I was going to sit in the sauna and borrowed his flip flops.
Read MoreSure, we'd had a success that day. But we couldn't all party and rejoice without keeping the momentum going for the many months or years that we would need to. Showing up was only 1/4 of the battle.
Read More"This, Ariel Davis, is the craziest thing you've ever done." Maybe I'd reached my limit, maybe I'd done something too crazy. I think of my idol, George Sands, who whisked Frederick Chopin to Majorca. I think of Max Frisch. Maybe this is just the great literary tradition.
Read MoreBy noon, I was twisting a can of Montauk Summer Ale into the sand at Ditch Plains.
Read MoreStimulus. Traveling, as a writer, is like having lived in a desert and suddenly arriving at an oasis. Everything is worth being written about when I'm traveling. Every view, every long walk, every overheard conversation (a hipster on a bus). The temperatures, the mistakes. The new views out of new window panes.
Read MoreA brief diary of my LA trip
Read MoreThe other Ariel was teaching me a lesson that only meeting her could teach me. Time to fix this.
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