Writing Autobiography

There’s something about words. They get me, always have.

I’m a stream-of-conscious writer. Little things fill my head and heart and pour out onto the page, their richness demanding to be shared.

Ever since I can remember I had a passion for the subtleties of the senses—be it taste, touch, smell, sound, or sight. The tartness of a ruby grapefruit, the feeling of a cashmere throw, the smell of Indian curry simmering, the sound of waves crashing in the moonlight, or the look of the Parisian streets at dusk. I hold on to these moments.

The first time I declared I wanted to be a writer (which came as a total surprise to me) was when my parents and I were driving through New England on our liberal arts college visits. It was autumn and the leaves were those creamy sunset hues you hope them to be. We were touring Brown. The air was crisp. I felt sharp. I felt smart. A wave of desire came over me for something I didn’t even know I wanted.

Oh, but how easy it is to turn your eyes for a moment and set your course in a direction not intended. So, I temporarily smothered that dream and went to Cornell to study hospitality and live out my family destiny (though many wonderful gifts came from this decision too). A pen to a kitchen knife—it was no match.

When I moved on to the real world, post-college, I continued to write things down. The way the gouda tasted that rainy day on Singel Canal, the way her golden hair blew in the wind, the way he scratched my head and I fell in love. I absorbed every moment, and wrote them down—running a food truck in Europe, cooking in restaurants, pursuing comedy. I always wanted to be inventive, creative and nuanced with the observation of my world.  Words gave me that ability.

The page is my knife, my mic and my magic—above all, it’s my story.

Just don’t shoot the Messinger.