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Photography by Nicolette Mallow taken at Isla de Alcatraces (Alcatraz Island) in San Francisco, California circa 2008.
I love this photo because it looks so beautiful and serene, especially with the sailboat in the distance. And yet, you’re seeing the island through the eyes of a Federal prisoner; beauty in the midst of tragedy.

Preface: In 2010, I wrote this story, took it down and revised for a repost in 2013.

About three years ago, I was sitting at the desk of my friend’s computer. We’d just returned to his apartment after drinking Tecate beers at a local bar in San Francisco within the Mission district. If I saw a photo of the place, I’d recognize it in an instant, but I cannot recall the name of the bar, just the interior. Since I hardly ever drink beer, I’m picky about which ones I consume: the cheapest beers or the finest beers. I can easily recall what we drank. After two drinks, he and I headed back to his place on foot as I’d met up with him via taxi from my waterfront hotel near the touristy area known as Fisherman’s Wharf. As we walked the blocks to his apartment, my friend (a Marine from Texas) rolled his bike on the sidewalk alongside me. Six foot tall, maybe six foot two—my 5’4″ self felt like I were in a euphoric state as this male friend of mine, nine years older than me, had become a confidant, companion, and pen pal to me. Our letters were often very intimate, like lovers. We often spoke daily for hours via AOL Instant Messenger and his messages often began with, “Hey Nico!”

He had one green eye, one blue. Once, I wrote a 30-page story (double spaced) about my trip to San Francisco and how it made me feel. And he read it and wrote back, even went as far to say my words made him feel “lust, anger, fear and sadness.” I do also recall he referred to San Francisco as “his city.” Since we’re both from different cities in Texas and met in Savannah, Georgia: I wasn’t sure how anything from California had become his, but I guess I can see what he meant since he lived there and I did not. I suppose we can all be possessive in different ways.

Honestly, I haven’t found a friendship quite like it since, even if I’ve seen a few good men that I love whom I can confide in and replaced his absence. I’ve developed a lot of platonic friendships with men I can talk to, which is good because, as they say in When Harry Met Sally, “that sex part always gets in the way”… Later on, I did find another pen pal that sort of remedied the loss of my Marine. A novelist that wrote me 400 letters in a year. And I loved writing letters to the novelist and reading his letters. He was smart, clever and amusing. The novelist adored me! Despite the fact, he often corrected my grammar in public, knowing I was dyslexic… But, the Marine—my first love out of high school— that man left a mark that took years to heal. At the time, he seemed to be the only one that could handle my fire. I felt safer in his presence, and I felt intense chemistry that hypnotized me. A Marine from Texas, he’s pretty intense, too, which made his closing statements all the more painful, in the end. Not to mention, one of the final things he said to me was, “You could never publish my love,” and yet here I am writing about it. However, I do promise to change his name whenever I do strive to get the story of my first love published in fictional form. I never actually mention his name, real or imaginary, within this story.

Flowers in a garden at Alcatraz Federal Prison. Photography by Nicolette Mallow.

Entering his apartment, I set my purse down before removing my jacket, taking a moment to soak in the decor as I’d never set foot in there before. I can still recall the smell of the room. I can envision all the photos, artwork, shoes, and books in this studio apartment. I remember seeing a few pictures of the same woman around the apartment in different rooms, but I was too timid and weak to ask why the photos were there, considering he had invited me to stay. I’d flown in from Savannah, Georgia. Had I been older, I would’ve handled so many things about this situation quite differently. He intimidated me at the time, but I wouldn’t have been intimidated had we met when I was older.

Years before San Francisco, the two of us met in an English class in college at Savannah College of Art & Design. I recall when he walked in the classroom—it was like his energy hit me like that AC/DC song “Thunderstruck.” (I know now to run away whenever I feel that lightning bolt of energy.) Anyway, up until San Francisco, I hadn’t seen him in a while, even if we spoke daily. He graduated that spring, and I stayed in Savannah after he moved to California. In hindsight, the naive, silly girl in me had such high hopes for that trip. Sadly, the journey to San Francisco ended in disaster, and I left feeling torn up and like I wasted my time, money, and energy. I left feeling like the other woman. I felt deceived, let down, betrayed.

Up until this trip, I’d been deeply in love with this man for a long time, like years, and we’d never even exchanged a kiss until that trip. Therefore, to finally be together for a night was surreal. It also scared me to death because I was afraid of love back then. Honestly, despite the intensity, we never once had sex in all the years we wrote to each other and stayed in contact, even if we were deeply intimate. I still can’t believe I never had sex with him as I lusted shamelessly after this man, and I loved him with all my heart. And I’m a very sexual person that is not timid about her sexuality… But, to me, that is a testimony of my selfless emotions as I loved him, and yet I expected nothing. I asked for nothing but his time. It says a lot about how he felt about me. Military men don’t just talk to girls for hours every day without sex if they don’t care for you on a deeper level… Eventually, that wasn’t enough for me because I wanted his respect and trust. More of his love. And those were three values he couldn’t give to me because he was dealing with his self-trust and self-respect issues. He had many women pining for his love, given how good looking he was and the fact he drove motorcycles, had full-body tattoos and was a hardcore military man with a degree and stable job… Alas, he never knew how much I loved him, not until it was over and he read this story simply because I was too insecure about speaking my mind back then.

Back to his apartment in the Mission District—I remember he told me in a declarative tone as we entered the bedroom, “Pick out something you like.” While speaking to me, a forefinger was pointing directly at a laptop, iTunes glowing on the silver screen. His words often came off as demands and orders rather than suggestions. He is hardcore in general. Since I grew up with all boys, I’d usually say jokingly to myself, “Sir, yes sir,” when he’d speak to me. He loved my playfulness and love for words. Loved my energy. He also loved my dark side, even if I could tell he didn’t quite understand me because I never opened up about that.

To this day, I cannot remember the sound of his voice. He and I haven’t spoken in years as when I cut things off, emotionally, and alluded to the fact I wanted to keep him at a distance—he cut me out completely in retaliation as he couldn’t handle the goodbye, nor the loss of power. For nearly 5-6 years, he held my heart even if there were other men in my life, too. He knew I’d cross the country to see him and ditch those other guys in a heartbeat. One time he wrote to me, “Nicolette—you’re the kind of girl a dude would trip another man in line just to get closer to you.”

He just didn’t know to what degree he held my heart. Despite any wrongdoings, he placed upon me. No man is perfect, and this one certainly has his fair share of flaws and did not treat me as I deserved, as a guest or a friend when I went to SF. There’s no denying he was a lousy host, given I had just recovered from surgery, and I expected more from a fellow born-and-raised Texan when I flew out there from the Georgia coast. [Southern hospitality is a big thing for us here, and I was shocked by his lack of hosting and kindness as I had to walk myself to the train station at 5 AM in the dark in a city I didn’t even know. And one night he just disappeared without reason, which made sense later on. He had a girlfriend he lied to me about.] Having said this, aside from the SF trip, he was never bad to me, not really. Later on, it all made sense later why he did what he did, even if it was selfish on his part and devastating for both girls involved.

All bad juju on his part aside, I either should’ve let SF go years ago, or I should have let him go gracefully, as opposed to disgracefully. Everyone has their worst flaws. Mine is often my mouth. As a writer, I have the gift of words, which can work for me or against me. It was my tongue from the hatchet, words blinded with anger, spoken in hysteria and rage that came out in the form of a letter—a letter he couldn’t forgive. No matter how many apologies I wrote for 1-2 years— he didn’t respond. Every couple of months, I would send one, hoping for peace. Once I even sent him a happy birthday in April. But he had no interest in peace or reconciliation and didn’t even bother replying to any of my 4-5 letters. So, one day I just gave up as it was too humiliating trying to talk to someone that didn’t care—time to move on. We kept in touch passive-aggressively through social media, but we haven’t had a direct exchange in many years. We’ve both moved on with other people and lead two different lives, but sometimes I can feel his energy and know somewhere, somehow: he’s thinking of me. That was how one of our arguments started. I told him, “I had a bad dream about you” and proceeded to describe it. And he wrote back, “Dreams aren’t real, Nicolette.” Well, no shit. But the affect they leave on the dreamer is very real. I recall he had no reply to that. At the time we were closer, he was spiritually closed off. I wonder if he’s found any sort of enlightenment?

Nonetheless, except in my dreams, I cannot hear his voice within my memory anymore. I blocked it out. Secretly that troubles me, and I wished for years that I could listen to it again. But the reality is that I hurt him very deeply when I pushed him away from full force in the form of a letter. The funny thing is, he hurt me deeply, too, and yet somehow, I was the villain for causing the same hurt in return. Anyway, that letter came two years after SF and I dredged up all the old history from the trip in my letter. I brought it up in a tone of hostility and spite. There was hardly any love in the letter, that I recall. I’m sure he was not used to a young woman talking to him that way. The tomboy (and battered woman) in me chose a terrible time to express my anger towards what felt like a wasted trip to California. My resentment at being kept a secret. My impatience. Honestly, I would’ve preferred to stay in Savannah and avoided that disaster altogether because perhaps we’d still be best friends. Who knows. All I do know is that my mind was in a bad place when I wrote that goodbye letter to the Marine—I don’t even know if everything I said in that letter was relevant as I deleted it so many years ago.

Additionally, on top of that letter, he’s an über alpha male, a war veteran, and a Texas-raised boy—so his pride/ego/stubbornness is on the line, and until he can forgive me for that, silence will continue. Plus, he is all about loyalties, and therefore when he felt my love was disloyal, that was the deepest wound of all. He always had control of the situation and suddenly, he had none. Nevertheless, it must hurt to hold a grudge like that. Forgiveness and mercy are also for the individual.

The irony, of course, is I was upset because I didn’t feel he was a loyal friend to me, and I was tired of being put in a box. I felt like I was waiting in the box for him to open it and give me attention. So I burned the box, so to speak, because I felt like he was toying with me over the years to keep me in a safe place that was comfortable to him—never wanting just to be my platonic friend—never wanting me to entirely give my heart to another man—but also never wanting to take it to the next level of exclusivity. Plus, there was the distance. It became too upsetting for me, like slight emotional torment: wanting something I could not reach, knowing he loved me but also was a liar. And I couldn’t handle it anymore because things were going on in my life that I couldn’t talk to him about because I was afraid of being punished by someone else. The timing was so horrible. I blame time and age for most of this because had I been older, wiser, sober, and stronger, like I am now, I would’ve done so many things differently.

What compelled me to write that goodbye letter two years after the fact—on top of unresolved anger towards San Francisco—I had severe problems at the time. I was also the victim of domestic violence by a martial artist 12 years older than me while I was living across the country in Savannah, which is why I had to flee to Texas. To heal… That letter I wrote to my former best friend, weeks after I moved back to Texas, was written in a frenzy of self-destruction due to PTSD, booze, and heartache. It was written in hysteria. It was written in a frenzy of pain due to being abused by someone else to the level of legal punishment and jail time. Amid a nervous breakdown due to my haunting, darkling past that was catching up with me like an emotional tsunami: I blindly took out all my rage and torment and grief on my former friend and companion that will rename nameless. Instead of screaming at the martial artist and putting him in his place, something I did years later. One of my biggest life regrets is writing that goddamn letter to the Marine. I don’t regret standing up for myself and realizing we weren’t compatible for a romantic relationship back then—but I wish we had just stayed friends—I wish I had not written that unstable note. I remember my eyes squinting to focus as I typed it and the screen was very blurry. My head was swaying back and forth as my eyes rolled in and out of my head. Somehow, I knew even then that he would be upset, but I had no idea he would block me out of his life. When I awoke the next morning passed out on the futon, sleeping on the living room floor. Frantically, I opened up my laptop, only to find his response letter, which was harsh. And he blocked me from responding. I felt powerless to fix anything, and I felt misunderstood and it was sad knowing we had no chance of passing on the street. Ain’t no kind of cashflow that can reverse time, though. Must learn to forgive myself. I know he felt like an asshole, too, because back then he had a Twitter and I recall he tweeted something about wishing he wasn’t such an asshole. That was not a coincidence. Even at the end of his note, even though you could hear his hatred, anger and disgust towards me: you could also hear sadness, pain, guilt and remorse.

I admit this release was very rough on me as I had so few good men in my life. Losing this one took a severe toll on my entity. I recall one of the last things he said in response was something along the lines, “Nicolette, you’re a really intense person. And that is going to work perfectly one day for a man, but it is not for me.” At that moment, suddenly it made sense why he kept me in a box. Then again, I recalled him once telling me in writing that a guy would trip and trample over another man to get to me—I remembered him saying how much he loved my fire and my fight. So, to read that was like acid in my eyes and black tar in my heart. I could tell by his tone by the end of the letter, he regretted his response and was not even thinking except doing: shotgun listening is a dangerous thing. Meaning, you hear someone say something—and then without thought or reason—you just respond based on emotion, pride, and ego. I wish he’d read that letter and known that I was having a nervous breakdown, rather than have taken it so personally. I wish he’d just told me that I was acting unlike myself and we talked it out as friends, the way we always used to. But he didn’t as he had things going on in his own life and was equally as emotionally unstable as I. C’est la vie.

{Side note: Once or twice a year, I read this story. Today I reread it in March 2015. Looking back five years after the fact of writing the letter. While I regret writing it, I regret the heavy problems I had at the time, and I regret how he overreacted to it and how he punished me. I still do not regret speaking from the heart or trying to stand up for myself. Even if I do not like the way I went about it. Had I done so years earlierhad I set healthy boundaries years earlier and known my worth and spoken my mindhad I been more honest about my feelings and the abuse that was happening to me because of another man cross country. Had I been more open about what I wanted or needed from the friendship. Had I been more honest about the fact I didn’t like feeling controlled by a man. I could’ve avoided the tsunami of emotion, and it would have been like natural wave currents, easier to ride through stormy waters. It was a brutal lesson I needed to learn about love…My only regret, today, is that I never told him what he meant to me, to his face. I recently realized I’d rather hang myself out on a limb all alone and declare my feelings, letting someone know just what I feel, as opposed to keeping it locked inside and bear the eternal weight.

Regardless, back to that day years ago in San Francisco, after we walked to his apartment while sitting in his chair and scrolling from A to Z in iTunes: I saw the artist’s name Lucero within the alphabetical listing of his iTunes collective. I had not heard of this particular band before and found the name to be very peculiar, if not enticing. Something was menacing and mysterious about this word as it almost sounds like Lucifer (you know, the devil?). . . By the time I returned home to Savannah: I had forgotten the band’s name as I was trying to block out everything. The best memory I came home with was my day trip alone to Alcatraz.

Months later, I saw someone post a YouTube link via Facebook of the song “Little Silver Heart.” It’s weird because a few weeks later, I ran into a girl during my stay in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, at the Sea of Cortez and I discovered she had tattooed a little silver heart onto her skin in honor of this song. When I saw the name Lucero: I felt a tingling sensation crawl up my spine and it triggered my mind to the day I saw this name the very first time.

Once this tidal wave of nostalgia hit me, I googled the band, listened to a few tracks, read over the lyrics of a few albums and got a feel for their music. Even though Lucero is an all-male band, I felt as a woman that I identified with Lucero’s lyrics—personally and through stories of the men in my life regarding the ways I’d been treated or what have you—whether it was friend, family, or lover who have come and gone, or still apart of my life story.

Lucero has long been admired in their hometown of Memphis, where they have hosted ‘The Lucero Family Block Party’ every spring for a number of years. The group found their name in a Spanish/English dictionary. Lucero is variously translated as “bright star” or “morning star.” None of them can speak Spanish. It’s been two decades since original members Ben Nichols, Brian Venable, Roy Berry, and John C. Stubblefield (keyboardist Rick Steff joined in 2006) started playing shows in Memphis. The band’s first show was April 13, 1998 at a warehouse space across the street from what is now the National Civil Rights Museum, the infamous Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. Their first set was six songs played to about six people. On August 3, 2018, record release day for Among the Ghosts, the band will be co-headlining Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado.”

Ben Nichols, the lead vocalist and a guitarist, holds a distinct, masculine voice that ranges in skills. The music can be very much like rock and roll, and then at other times, it borderlines a melodic mini-orchestra. You hear the piano a lot, too. Lucero’s sound holds a bluegrass/alternative rock feel to it. It reminds me of something that would play off the jukebox at a dive bar in the middle of Texas under neon lights or at The Jinx in Savannah, GA. When I read their website, it was no shock. They came from Memphis as I’ve been to that city and it’s super similar to Austin. Cool stuff. Indeed not my favorite band, but I like them a lot and have paid money to see them live. Ultimately, my point is that I felt/feel touched in a sentimental manner when reading their lyrics. The words spoke and continue to speak to my heart. Being the rank sentimentalist I am, there you have it. At first glance, you may not think these punk rock, bad-boy-looking kind of dudes would be so passionate – but their lyrics prove otherwise.

Not only do I adore words from the heart, but men have been a huge part of my life, for better and for worse. Despite all the bad times, a world without men would not be a world worth living in. And when it comes to men I care for — friend, family, or lover — I always want to hear their thoughts, perceptions, and insights.

Regardless, as I read the words of each song by Lucero, it was refreshing to read such evocative, sincere lyrics from a man. Ultimately, I admired Lucero based on their lyrics before I ever heard a melody. And then I was pleasantly pleased when I realized I enjoyed their music, too. All of the songs copied at the end of this excerpt are written by the band Lucero.

Update from the Author: This was written years ago and Lucero is not a recent story. However, in August 2017, I went back to California for a third time to see two friends in Irvine, Orange County, Long Beach, Huntington Beach, Newport Beach, and LA. I knew the Marine was living in LA, but he’s not why I visited, nor did I reach out to him. He and I had sort of connected on Instagram, yet still no direct messages. I was following him online and liked a few of his posts, watched his stories, even commented positively on a few of the girls he photographed because they were pretty girls. There were lots of girls he photographed. So, I know he saw my presence on his Instagram, but he didn’t reciprocate. However, I noticed when I left California and came back to Texas: the Marine had posted a photo of a man outside a church sitting on the steps looking tired, maybe even sad. And the caption read, I’ll Just Fall by Lucero. Without a doubt, he was posting about me. I had written this Lucero story years prior. He read it and hadn’t been happy about it, but also did not tell me to take it down since I never mentioned his name. He knew I was very hurt that I was a writer. And that I loved him and was not out for revenge. I was using art to heal. I felt in my gut, despite his silence, the Marine kept tabs on me, but it wasn’t crystal clear until that post in August 2017. Months later, he deleted the photo. A year and a half later in Feb. 2019, the Marine booted me off his Instagram at random, or perhaps not so random. Because he gave me the boot after I began exclusively dating another military man, an Army Veteran.

Steven Mark is the only man I’ve been exclusive with in the last ten years. (All of the other relationships were open relationship, very Bohemian.) Not even two days after I posted photos and videos of my boyfriend’s birthday trip to the UT basketball games and how I baked Steven Mark a cake and a nice dinner. The Marine Veteran kicked me off his social media, which shocked me. Perhaps the Marine kicked others off his Instagram and clearly it wasn’t all about me. But he’s the one that blocked me on Facebook years ago, removed me off all social media. So, the timing of his removal was quite clear that he had no interest in seeing me with another man, even 10 years later. I had no idea he still cared that much. I never tried to reconnect.

And now for the lyrics. May I present to you, the words of Lucero!

Sweet Little Thing: Sweet little thing. A constant in my thoughts. Sweet little thing. Somehow we both got lost. And you tell me that I can’t change. And you say I’m such a boy. Sweet little thing. Your friends say I’m no good. Sweet little thing. They never understood. The way I’d stay up all night. The way I’d tremble in your arms. Sweet little thing. Maybe I ain’t no good. Sweet little thing. I ain’t done what I should. But let ’em think what they want. But all I want is you. A kiss’ll make you close your eyes. A kiss won’t make you stay. Please don’t walk away. I like to know you’re there. Though there’s nothing left to say. Please don’t walk away.

Hold Fast: Well the sail. The sail on this ship comes, crashing down. And the rope, that is your love, slips from my hands. And I hold fast, figures. Don’t let her slip away. Hold fast ‘cause you need her. To get to the calm of the bay. Now the bow. The bow on this ship is under the sea. But I won’t let go the rope. Though the waves cover me. Now hold fast your fingers. Don’t let her slip away. Hold fast cause I need her. To get to the ship back to bay.

Little Silver Heart: You’re too sweet to let go of. But I don’t need to fall in love. Now I’m too tired to talk my way out of this one. It’s a losing game. I’ve had enough. It’s too late to make things right. And there ain’t no strength left in this heart of mine. You’re too good for this game of mine. And girl I know I never treat you right. Just a little silver heart. Send my lucky star. On a little silver chain. Valentine. Little silver heart. That you once adored. And you don’t wear my heart. Around your neck no more.

Chain Link Fence: Now it’s the end of the summer and I’m just twenty-one. I been in California for the last two months. And there weren’t no girls like her out there. Her boyfriend don’t like me and I think that’s fair. Cause I’m sitting right here on the chain link fence. And when she smiles at me gonna take my chance. Say I know the show’s over but I wish you wouldn’t leave. Hold on, hold on, hold on to me. Sweet girl. Don’t let go for the world. Cause I’m not from here. And I’m afraid that I might never see you again.

I’m Coming Home: Darling one. Don’t cry don’t cry. Cause I don’t plan on dying. Cause I don’t plan on dying at all. The boys are waiting for me outside by the van. Gotta go, gotta go, got to work it now. Darling don’t cry for me. Cause I’m coming home.

When You Decided to Leave: When you decided to leave. I never asked where you’d gone. When you decided to leave. I left you alone. It don’t mean much to me . What all you did while you’re gone. It don’t mean much to me. As long as you come home. I try to be a good man. But I’ve done so wrong for so long. I don’t know if I can help but be a bad man. I know that you loved me once. And I took for granted the time. I know that you loved me once. When you were mine. When you decided to leave. I was so young and so bold. And then you decided to leave. I got tired and old. I try to be a good man. But I’ve done so wrong for so long. I don’t know if I can help but be a bad man.

Fistful of Tears: Well I’m sorry my dear / Never thought the end was so near / A heart full of snakes and a belly full of rage / Has left me with a fistful of tears / Wave the ocean and wave the sea / After I’m gone won’t you remember me sometimes / The water’s deep dark and blue / There ain’t nothing left to do / So darling be strong I’ll cross before long / And I’ll wait on the far shores for you / Wave the ocean and wave the sea / One day those waters will bring you back to me / Never done one thing right now I’m saying goodbye / Please darling don’t cry 

Nights Like These: It’s nights like these, that make me sleep all day. It’s nights like these, that make you feel so far away. It’s nights like these, when nothing is for sure. It’s nights like these, I don’t want you anymore. It’s nights like these, the sad songs don’t help. It’s nights like these, your heart’s with someone else. It’s nights like these, I feel like giving up. It’s nights like these, I don’t seem to count for much. The beer tastes like blood, my mouth is numb. I can’t make the words I need to say. She had a weakness for writers. And I was never that good at the words anyways. Well I’ve only got this one wish. That I was as good enough to make you forget. The only boy who ever broke your heart. Cause nights like these tear me apart.

I’ll Just Fall: I think I’ll stay right down here on this floor. Cause if I get back up I’ll only fall down more. It ain’t the liquor and it ain’t the beer that keeps me down. It ain’t the sad songs or heartache it ain’t even this town. Now I must’ve had a pretty good time to end up here. Made a pretty good run it caught up with me my dear. There’s no need to make a fuss cause I’ll be all right. Just let me lay here a while ’til I can stand upright. Now I’m just a little bit tired that’s all. Don’t make me get back up cause I’ll just fall. Please stop talking so loud and just let me sleep. I ain’t in nobody’s way they can just step over me. Well I think I’ll just stay right down here on this floor. Cause if I get back up I’ll only fall down some more.

Old Sad Song: I’d stay with you tonight my love I’d stay the whole night long. But the boys are playing those old sad songs and I must sing along. I hear the snare drum’s slow sad march I hear those fiddles cry. And I must go to them my love or else I’d stay the night. The light from the disco ball surrounds us with stars. And I looked like trouble right from the start. You told me so, hell you told me so. Smoking cigarettes more than I should. My hands won’t stop shaking and that can’t be good. I would forget you if I only could. Think about anything else. And that slow dance didn’t last very long. So now I guess we’re moving on. well it was nice. God damn it was nice.

When You’re Gone: She said she was going home. I said I’ll be fine by myself. I thought that she wanted me. But she was thinking something else. Now the sun was coming up. Still I couldn’t see exactly how she felt. I thought that she wanted me. But she was thinking something else. It don’t take much to see inside my heart. I was never any good at telling lies. And it don’t take too much to see there ain’t too much of me. Here behind these eyes. I miss you when you’re gone. Please don’t stay gone too long.

Published by Nicolette Mallow

‡ Nicolette Mallow is an Artist: writer, dancer, vocalist, thespian, model, and (amateur) photographer. Writing is Mallow’s strongest artistic skill. Internationally published in the United States and Europe, Nicolette has obtained 110+ publications thus far. Mallow has interviewed an extensive list of talent and collaborated with companies and PR teams from Texas Monthly, National Geographic, Prevention Magazine, HBO Films, The Hollywood Reporter, SXSW, The David Lynch Foundation, Cine Las Americas, The University of Texas at Austin and more. Presently her portfolio entails 12 national awards or scholarships, including both individual and group projects. Working with Press and Publicity teams from companies like Sunshine Sachs, Fons PR, Frank PR, and CW3PR — Mallow can liaise with publicists, entrepreneurs, and their brands. Since 2005, for 17 years, Nicolette Mallow has covered numerous press, corporate and red carpet events as a (dyslexic) writer. Mallow has interviewed talent far beyond her years, including Jimmy Chin, Greta Gerwig, Bob Roth, Dr. Travis Stork, Joan Lunden, Larysa DiDio, Lauren Handel Zander, James White, Jay Roach, Naomi Whittel and Roc Chen. Once, she was a public speaker for a national business conference. Her career is diverse and transcends a vast array of industries, but the focus is always on the arts. Nicolette Mallow does enjoy all forms of writing, but her favorite writing genres to create entail editorial, arts & entertainment, literary journalism, travel, magical realism, nonfiction, technical and promotional publicity. Over time Nicolette has attained Press Credentials to events like Texas Film Awards (hosted by Austin Film Society), The Mexic-Arte Museum, Austin Film Festival, Euphoria Music Festival, and The Blanton Museum of Art. She also wrote for Savannah Magazine, a radio station operated by EMMIS Communications, District newspaper, and the Thinkery (formerly Austin Children’s Museum). In her spare time, Nicolette creates a magical realism novel and turns her nonfiction memoirs into short story novellas. Obtaining two degrees from the Savannah College of Art & Design (SCAD), she has a Master of Arts degree in Arts Administration (a graduate degree now recognized as Creative Business Leadership) and a B.F.A. in Writing. Born and raised in Texas and NYC—Nicolette Mallow is also a world traveler that lives for art and loves to learn. “L’art Pour L’art.”

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