Two weeks ago I retired from writing assignments. Which is just another way of saying I don't wanna work for the man any more. Quick note; the majority of my editors of the past fifteen years have been women. All way smarter than me.

Truth be told, I want to write without the pressure of writing.

Writing is an obsession, a joy, and the thing that gets me through—provided I'm writing what I want.

I wasn't always like this. I used to love the assignments. I probably still would if my only responsibilities were to produce good work and not to drink too much, too often. Things change. Now I've got a small company. It's a nightmare on most days, but the rare times it's not, it is fabulously gratifying. The crew working for me are awesome, and we have a helluva a lot of fun.

It's odd not to be managed. From age nineteen up until three years ago I've had an agent. The first one, Michael, launched me as a fashion photographer. He literally change my life that year. That's also the same year I got the nickname “LouLou”. A makeup artist named Lance told me that my demeanor and my given name “Louis” were too heterosexual to party with he and his friends at a gay bar. So with a long handled blush brush he dubbed me LouLou. It stuck.

Now I have a cleverly named blog, and all the writing freedom in the world.

Oh shit.