I began writing publicly on this site in 2014. At the time it struck me as a bit over-the-top having a website of my own, but then again, how else would a writer make his presence known? Back then I was not acquainted with any other writers or editors to call friends, nor did I have any idea what kind of writer I even wanted to be. Fast forward six years, and I never could have imagined what my reality would be like in 2020. Nor could I have imagined the incredible people I would meet along the way. Two books, 15 magazine features, and 17 countries later, I remain truly amazed at the dramatic turn a life can take in such a short period of time. Which leads me to what this is all about: I’m burned out, folks. Too burned out to continue writing on here.

When we think of classic literature, we think of a vast canon of novels that articulate—through fiction—the great struggles and triumphs of Western civilization and the people who have lived within; and which, in the act of reading, constitutes a kind of celebration of Western civilization. Our imaginations perhaps briefly sweep through that vast canon and rest on certain scenes: the obsession of Captain Ahab with the white whale… the tragic suicide of Romeo and Juliet… the clanging swords of the Three Musketeers… Beowulf’s righteous slaughter of Grendel and the monster’s mother… Anna Karenina leaping in front of the train. Until very recently in human history, the written word was the primary means by which a culture understood itself. And even now with television and the internet, literature is still far from an obsolete medium of information and entertainment. Books still tell us about who we are, and have immense power in determining the future direction of societies. But walk into a Barnes & Noble or local library and you’ll see that something is a little off. “Off” but not unexpected. “Off” but we would be naive to be in any way surprised.

Napoleon was an “Enlightenment conqueror” ruling an empire of the proletariat. His invasions of kingdoms was the major catalyst that turned Europe democratic, and this was not unintended.

I suspect one of the main motivations for promulgating this falsehood that the Soviet takeover of East Europe caused the Cold War, is because the real reason that the United States and its smaller allies engaged in a 44-year-long silent conflict that cost an untold number of lives would be too embarrassing to publicly acknowledge: that the U.S. Army first, and the CIA second, believed a series of lies about Soviet intentions that were fed to them by a captured high-ranking German intelligence officer trying to escape prosecution.

There was no comparison between you and I; you in your black tea length dress and I in my blue jeans, and yet you held out your hand anyways and I kissed it. It was your right hand, which I thought odd for a second, until I snuck a glance at your left and noticed the lighter shade on your ring finger. Either you were married or recently divorced, but nosiness has no place at the Bar Hemingway at midnight, does it? In any case, let the record state before I continue that you were the one who broke Rule #4, not me, and that I was the innocent little lamb.

To be honest, I strongly considered not publishing this essay. Mainly because of feared personal cost. In fact, I’ve sat on this subject and have kept my feelings to myself for about a year for precisely this reason, until eventually I just came to a point where I thought the problem was getting so bad something had to be said. It wasn’t just that no one was speaking up for men, it was that no one thought men needed speaking up for.