I wrote a memoir of a year that I spent collecting embarrassing stories, and discovered, much to my chagrin, that my own life had become the biggest embarrassing story. I wrote a longform essay about how I came to reckon with decades-old sexual violence. 

I write other things, too. 

On love as a metric for billion-dollar philanthropy.

On synchronicity, empathy and healing. 

On sexual assault and spiritual reckoning

On the most memorable acts of receiving, from some notable givers. 

On the happiest place in New York City.

On writing memoir.

On the honesty of aggression. 

On finding lust in a Czech boxing gym.

On home. 

On intuition.

On pretending to be a rock star. 

On sobriety. 

On humor. 

On the link between materialism and spiritualism, via the lens of fine gemstones. 

On connection and affection. 

On surrendering to the creative process and, well, life. 

On mortality. 

On bicycles and non-attachment. 

On monkey mind. 


Also, on rare occasions, I tell stories. This clip is from 2011, when I put my name in the hat at the Moth and didn't get called. I was so relieved, until, at the last moment, their tenth storyteller bailed--and then they called my name. It's a story about the very first time I ever read in public.