My father used to say that I launched my writing career at seven. I fancied myself as a playwright. I was also in charge of our backyard ticket sales. Others might say my writing career didn't officially begin until I received my first paycheck (but it didn't seem right to take money just for spilling a little ink.) At college, I worked as a fledgling journalist for anyone brave enough to hire me. That's when my father issued his sage advice, "Longshoremen can write. Get a real job”. I believed him. He was a doctor after all. I obeyed him in all things but this. Nothing was going to get in between me and my Ticonderoga.

After graduation, I landed a gig writing scripts for a few television shows, finally cashed a paycheck, and escaped certain poverty. It wasn't long before I moved to the East Coast where I dabbled in publishing and finally discovered the wonderful world of advertising. I wrote a campaign for Neutrogena on spec, sent it to Ogilvy, and was hired ten days later. Once in New York, I made the rounds of a few swanky agencies (one moves on to move up in this industry) before being recruited by the New York Times. The Times had a small internal agency, and I became its sole copywriter. I was brought in to help usher them into the digital age and even wrote some of those cool taglines on the cover. Longshoremen be damned.​

​

The glamor of the city was sweet, but I wanted a fast car and sea salt in my hair. (You can take the girl out of California, but you know how that story goes.) So, I moved to the shore in Connecticut, picked up a Boxster (green, tan interior), and continue to support agencies, companies, and brands—small and large—whilst working on the next great American novel. 

​