In 2006, the year I turned 30, I graduated Magna Cum Laude with my BA in English, my fourteen year old daughter was repeatedly attempting suicide and failing in school, and my four-and-a-half year old ADHD twin boys were rapidly being kicked out of every daycare center in the city – all of which was the death knell for my failing marriage. Around this time, I created a MySpace account to stalk my daughter, who, I discovered, had a clandestine account herself. On my profile I listed writing and reading as two of my hobbies and one day I got an invitation to read a blog written by some “author” named Brad Listi. Everyone was an author on MySpace, it seemed. Most of them were trying to sell me something and the ones who weren’t tended to write boring blogs about finance or essential oils or some other subject I had no interest in.

I was, as a matter of course, rejecting nearly every “author” who invited me to read his or her writing – but for some reason, I went ahead and accepted this Brad Listi fella’s invitation.

Look at this earnest face.

Dear Dust

Almost five years ago I started a literary website. My initial expectations were, frankly, minimal. It was  a scrawny and unattractive little thing at first, traipsing around the Net in a shoddy brown dress. Just a few contributors, no real direction, no idea how to wear its makeup. But it has really blossomed. Five long, hot years later? Now it knows how to work an IP frock. Wear a string of embedded pearls. Shake it for the pixelverse. My little site has become a lithe, glowing thoroughbred. She’s one of the sauciest destinations around, literary or otherwise. She has a huge stable of users and fans and an unbelievably high quality of content. Actually, if I’m being truthful with myself, I think I’m a little bit in love with her content. The way her page breaks move and flow. The way she downloads and buffers. Her short, supple fonts and nubile sans-serif bolds.