Hey there! Welcome to my virtual home.

Credit: Felicia C. Sullivan

Vitals

  • Born & raised in New York. I’ve lived in Los Angeles for the past six years.
  • Started career at an investment bank: A time I’d like to forget.
  • Ditched the suit to build a profitable dot.com in 1999.
  • Built a boutique digital agency from $1MM to $20MM in 4 years.
  • Launched 60+ major brands online across industries & sectors.
  • I’ve worked on the brand and agency side, and have spent the last seven years as a consultant.
  • Published two critically acclaimed books & seeking new representation for my third: My books and work have been featured in dozens of publications…


On the value of a “bridge” book

Photo by Sinitta Leunen on Unsplash

I liken the performance of my second book to getting weighed at the doctor’s office. Standing there, eyes pressed shut I’d shout, I don’t want to see, I don’t want to know, but I do know this — the number is never great. Paling in comparison to my impressive debut, which was published when I was young, naive, and filled with possibility. When all I wanted was a second book published by Knopf, featured in The New Yorker, and made into a movie that didn’t star Tori Spelling.

Now, I’m all gravely voice and scotch in wine glasses. …


I’ve written four stories about the platform in the eight years I’ve been on it, so know this is serious.

Licensed from Adobe Stock

Much has been written about the halcyon days of Medium, which reminded me of the unblemished pastures of writing online in the early aughts. We were wild, running amok, and wrecking the joint. We published stories and said, fuck you, gatekeepers! Our friends were a constellation of dots on a map, and we chatted with them on AOL Messenger, Yahoo messenger, G-chat, email and text message. We hit send, pressed published and our hearts were put out into the ether. COD.

But what put us on pause, what made us stop in the middle of the street was when a…


It’s okay to heal offline.

Licensed from: Adobe Stock

We post. We publish. We hit send. We film. We press record. We Story and we Tik. Sometimes, we Tok. There we go again, playing surgeon with our hearts when the extent of our experience amounts to watching The Discovery Channel. Yet, here we are, scalpel in hand, making our deep cuts until we get to the dark, pulpy bits. The meat. What the crowd pays to see. We trot out our innards, the roughest, gamiest parts of ourselves and tell our stories. Wringing the words out of our bodies.

We’re called brave, real, honest, and human. We’re also called…


Rant

Enjoy your $10 tees while Cambodian workers beg for a $160 wage.

Licensed from Adobe Stock // golubovy

Yesterday, I watched a documentary where a Cambodian woman wept into a camera. Pleading for $160 a month, a living wage. Tired of making clothes for American and European consumers at the expense of her life, health and dignity.

On any given day, a fresh-faced teenager will gush into a camera. You know the conspiratorial tone, the you guys, the giggling and rattling of shopping bags like maracas. The you’ll never believe what I got from H&M! And they’ll proceed to trot out their purchases like show ponies and tell you why they just had to have a sweater with…


What to do when your future seems hopeless.

Photo by Amy Treasure on Unsplash

When I was small, my pop often complained about the smell of his work. The youngest of seven children, he made a career out of breaking yearlings. He spent his days in barns, surrounded by wild stallions and horses ready to be broken. Bales of hay, feed and manure surrounded him. The smell of the animals barnacled itself to him, and this was the smell in his car, in his hair, and when you held him close after a hard day at the farm.

It smelled earthy, pungent, and primal and me having grown up in Brooklyn and Long Island…


Fiction

A story of a marriage unravelling during an “our baby isn’t dead” dinner.

Photo by Juan Pablo Serrano Arenas from Pexels

When Henry asked, why are you doing this, why are we getting a divorce, Nora said, because you only kiss me in the usual places. “I kissed your big toe,” to which Nora responded, “that’s not unusual. I’m talking creases, the backs of knees, jutting bone.” “Crease, what? Bone, where? I’m getting a Coke,” Henry said. He stood in front of the fridge wondering if it was a soda that he wanted.

For thirty years, he’d come home after work and reach for a glass, fizzle, and some ice. Nora sat in the chair beside him with a pack of…


Some people love you broken.

Licensed from Adobe Stock

You liked me broken. For years, you played the part of a fixer, the friend who swept up the pieces and relished the reassembly.

But first, this —

We were coworkers, our offices in shouting distance. When we first met, I envied you to the point of revulsion— you with your impossibly shiny hair, the tailored suits, the fact you were a marketing director at 29, younger than me. You were all angles, soft skin, and had the kind of confidence that would take me years to acquire. I’d never known anyone so assembled, so neat. …


Let’s stop pinning a pretty bow on capitalism. And start leaning into life outside of the office borders.

Licensed from Adobe Stock

They surprise you with a birthday cake. Confetti sprinkles, candles, and a card signed by thirty people. Playful memes in your inbox. Pats on the back are jocular, familiar. They ask after your family, know the names and ages of your children. Maybe they even know about the fertility treatments, the struggle and heartbreak, or your parent’s mind fading from view. The hospital visits where you’ve become a stranger to the person who held you tight and safe in her womb.

You spend eight, ten, maybe twelve hours a day with a group of people cobbled together because everyone has…


Fiction

A woman frightened of leaving her house builds a life in her head & becomes obsessed with a YouTuber, while a wolf endures a harsh winter.

Photo by Maycon Marmo from Pexels

If you run, they’ll hunt you.

Eyes amber and arctic blue, their bodies glow hot in the dark. Surveying the homeland, they study your habits and how you move. Are you sluggish, small and weak — can you run? Or, do you tower? Can you cower and hide in a copse of trees? Can your one swift kick crack their jaw?

Are you the kind to lay down and die?

They soon get the make and model of you before they crouch to the ground. They’ll snarl, growl, and bare their teeth. At first you don’t register the one because…

Felicia C. Sullivan

Marketing Exec/Author. I build brands & tell stories. Work in Human Parts, OneZero, Forge, Index & Marker. Hire me: t.ly/bEnd7 Brand & Content eBooks: t.ly/ZP5v

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