Oliver is not a good dog.
There I was, splayed on the sidewalk with his leash still wrapped around my wrist. My knees were ground into the concrete and both of my hands were scratched.
I want to begin by apologizing for my negligence in taking so long to update this blog. Granted, we have lived, and are still living, the most horrendous and destructive pandemic since the Spanish Flu of 1918, but still…I should’ve written.
During a recent conversation with a native New Yorker friend during this frigid and dank winter, we began talking of our dreams of warmer weather and nearby beaches. The repartée landed on talk of some destinations I knew of, like, The Hamptons, Long Beach, the Far Rockaways and finally, …
Brain-injured or not, competition is competition. Today I am brain-injured, but I wasn’t always. Having lived for 21 years before suffering a TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury), I now know life both with, and without, the condition.
One driving force to existing as a writer in New York City is where that writer lives. For me, a writer, where I live is where I spend the most time because I write from home.