Being a writer is fascinating. At first I was only able to write in total quiet and isolation. The slightest distraction threw me off balance. Now, I am more focused. I am getting more done. My writing is developing and I can see a stark contrast between the first few chapters I wrote and the subsequent ones…
My dream is to keep writing, get ever better, and hopefully in a few years be able to live full time as a writer. There is so much I can imagine writing about. I love reading fiction, but concerning my own writing, I am more interested in reality – people’s lives, struggles, and courage.
My notebook accompanies me wherever I go – either in electronic form on my iPhone, or in the form of Hemingway’s favorite notebooks. Thoughts come and go, some of them seemingly important… but if I don’t capture them immediately, they slip my mind as quickly as they materialized seconds earlier. Sleeping in, and cuddling with my loved ones in the morning helps to get me off to a good start. I have incredibly vivid dreams since I started writing.
A few hours of reading a book follow. Being a writer, I am still the crazed bookworm I always was, easily devouring three books a week.
My own first book is slowly shaping up. I am writing parallel on my 2nd and 3rd drafts. It’s a good life and I am profoundly happy.

Homelessness has always been a blessing and a curse. Growing up homeless in body, family, and country I often felt a great longing inside of me, a loneliness beyond words. No amount of time spent with people could extinguish that. Over the years much of my nomadic existence was a search for home, a search to belong. In the end home was inside of me, and in the people around me who made a difference… and home was in the ocean. No other place, no matter how comfortable I felt was ever truly home. It is the ocean, the endless shades of turquoise and blue that slow my heartbeat to a confident, peaceful pace. I cannot think of anything more invigorating and soothing than diving beneath the surface, feeling the Big Blue with all my senses. Then I move on, in search of new encounters, too curious about the world to be able to remain at peace. Eventually peace will have to be inside of me so I can carry it with me wherever I go. I would say I am about halfway there…

The Columbia River holds great significance in my life. Here was my first home away from home. I wrestled with black widow spiders and rattle snakes. I bought freshly caught salmon from Native Americans. I learned how to drive a car. On this river’s banks I found first love after my gender change operations. Above all I learned that instead of black and white, our world is made up of thousand shades of grey. At the mighty Columbia is where the nomad in me awoke.

At one point we all switched off our torches and sat silently in the dark. I could feel the weight of the mountain on my shoulders, breathed the dense earthy atmosphere around me with heightened senses. Since then I know that I need the open sky above me, need to feel a fresh breeze caressing my skin. Life is trial and error. We need to explore in order to find our way.

Traveling eight weeks through Micronesia and the Philippines my friends and I came to Palawan. We took the local bus from El Nido to Sabang and spontaneously hopped on top, following the locals’ example. For nine hours we sat up top, the wind whipping into our faces. My ass hurt like never before, being perched on luggage or metal rods all day long. We focused forward to not be beheaded by low hanging branches and power lines. The cars in front of us whipped up clouds of dust that clung to our skin. The bus raced through forests, and along dusty mountain roads. Local children screamed in delight when they saw us sitting on top, waving at them with huge grins on our faces. Everything smelled earthy and fresh. It was an unforgettable, vivid experience. I felt so incredibly happy and alive!!

My math teacher in high school once asked me why I wore leather jackets in his classroom; what was I protecting myself from? I laughed at his question and answered something stupid. Truth is that for a very long time I needed the strong smelling leather around me. I was too homeless, too desperate, and found solace behind the walls of my leather shell. I was always strong, always a survivor. The only difference to then is that now I am conscious of my strength. I feel comfortable and safe within myself.

Very true. As much as I am telling myself to enjoy the process, it is a daunting task. I am moving along at a snail’s pace whereas writing my 1st draft flowed like a powerful river. Well, I have always loved a good challenge, so on we go.