haven't tumblred in a while...
We don’t know who is reading this, or why. Sometimes I think the most valuable thing would be to write every day here—a kind of chronicle of the upheavals of starting a business, getting into publishing, all the crazy things. In the moment it seems self-indulgent. But in the end, wouldn’t we make millions by publishing it as a self-help book? Those always do well…
I thought this last night while giving a presentation at our old home base at USC. I saw everyone, all our early supporters—Erin Reilly, Jon Taplin, John Seely Brown, Jake DeGrazia. Met the new companies; was ignited inside despite myself, despite how tough the past few months have been, by the enthusiasm and hope.
My boyfriend and I were talking about how entrepreneurs are the new artist class. I think Alex from reddit calls entrepreneurship the new indie band everyone wants to be part of—and yeah, it’s probably true. I lived out of my car for a long time, Niree’s doing the nomad thing now. My boyfriend was in a barbershop on Polk Street, doubtless illegally, (no joke, I wrote about it here when in one of my bursts of enthusiasm for our lifestyle), which inspired all kinds of interesting writing that I’m publishing under another name. See if you can find it.
The writing part of it is tough, inspires the most guilt. The day-to-day is so intense, so full, I’m losing the words to describe it. And I regret it every minute, because I know I’ll miss those chronicles–or, even worse, not remember enough to miss those chronicles.
In any case, I’m back in LA, where I’ve done most of my writing. Back on my brother’s sofa-bed by the window in his downtown loft, looking through those Art Deco windows at other lives, past the streets that slide into Skid Row, walking the dog to the coffee shop where I set a creepy scene in the novel that’s now in the drawer, spying on movie sets, eating gelato at midnight, prying into my brain for nostalgia for the creepy history that you can smell and feel here.
I’m flying back to San Francisco tonight—which has become a real home too, with my two ballerina roommates, the eerily sunny back porch where I can watch the fog creeping up over the Presidio. But I can’t get over the weird connection to LA. I don’t think Connu could have been birthed anywhere else.