R.I.P Warren Miller

Los Angeles seems an unlikely spot responsible for rekindling my love of skiing, but it was in a tiny, temporary apartment a block south of Artesia Boulevard where I discovered Warren Miller’s buttery voice and found motivation in his unrestrained passion for winter.

Why I write.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ― Ernest Hemingway It occurred to me on a cloudy Wednesday morning that I needed to escape. The kind of getaway akin to being so engrossed in a story I can’t help but cheat and flip to the end to …