
Me feeling extremely self-satisfied about my situation, only to be soaked to the bone and nearly swept off to sea moments later.
Less than a week ago (really??!) I landed in the home of my dear pal, Nancy Irvine, in Auckland, New Zealand. Nancy and I worked together at CBS Records/Sony Music in NYC back in the days when we could stay awake past 11pm and order enough sushi on the corporate credit card to sink a record company.
We took a little road trip to a beach house in a place called Whangapoua (pronounced Fongapoouh), where we spent a blissful couple of days surrounded by rolling hills, sheep, blue green sea and jungle on one of the best decks I’ve ever cocktail houred on.
I’ve never been to New Zealand before and had no idea how insanely beautiful it is. Everywhere you turn. It’s like, really New Zealand? ANOTHER perfect beach? Don’t you have anything better to do?
We walked down our perfect beach, through an extremely muddy jungle over to New Chums Beach, which is touted as one of the Top 20 Beaches in the World – a title that seems rather unnecessarily celebratory in a country where the coastline that runs along the freeway could bring a person to tears.


I’m in New Zealand on a world-wide quest in search of the perfect place to write my new book, and have already started taking notes for my follow-up book which will apparently be all about my search for the perfect place to write my new book. And all the books to follow.
A search that I’ll be on for a lifetime if all goes according to plan.




















