I've been trying to write this follow-up post for some time. It's long and personal--only for those who are curious about what happened to me since April.

Last spring, I wrote about leaving. Professionally unfulfilled and socially disconnected, I agonized over whether to flee my adopted home of New York City...

My ship has been quietly slipping from the harbor these past two years. I can't stay out here in the open sea. Shall I tack back to port or sail on? Even the idea of leaving makes me miss the city, but I cannot even remember my last New York moment.

In the end, I decided to leave. New York had gone cold and sour for me. I packed my few belongings into a sterile white rental van and embarked for Philadelphia to live with my brother and his family while I decided whether to settle there. It was without question the loneliest, most heartbreaking move I've ever made. As I emerged on the New Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel, I started sobbing.

Living with my brother was therapeutic, and I'm grateful to have had his warm support. The time spent with him, his wife, and my absurdly cute nephew helped me to reconnect with the world after my period of isolation. But my brother's house was like a cozy rest stop that has sold out all its maps. It was not my destination, and I was still lost.

I'd left a lover in New York, so I traveled back each week to visit her. Paradoxically, the distance brought us closer. Living in the city, it was all too easy to keep the relationship at arms length. I used to take the subway uptown to stay with her a couple of nights a week, but I refused to let her sink in or interfere with my routine. But when you visit from out of town to spend days at a time in your lover's home, there is no avoiding interference. She starts to sink in. You begin to miss her whenever you're away.

Last spring, I wrote about the solace I took in blogging: "Writing has been for me like a hot fire in a cold dark room." Deeply unhappy with my technology career, I had resolved to become a writer, though I was unsure how to go about it and cynical about the possibility of success. I had begun writing a book, The Heretic's Bible, which I'd hoped to complete in Philadelphia...until another well-established author came out with a similar book. Seeking advice, I showed what I'd written to a friend's literary agent. She felt that the idea wasn't marketable enough and recommended that I drop the project. So I did.

I spent the spring and summer kicking around book ideas, but none felt right--I kept kicking. I applied for a couple of journalism jobs--fruitless. I kept working technology projects that I could barely stand to look at. Finally, in early August, I stumbled on something. Researching a blog post on the separation of church and state, I was struck by right-wing complaints of Christian persecution. At the same time, someone forwarded me a video of Pat Buchanan raging about Judge Sotomayor's racism against white people. A light flickered in my head. I began to research the right wing's "persecution complex." There were blog references galore and an article or two (there have been many more written since), but no one had dedicated a book to the topic.

I scribbled the idea into an email and sent it to the agent I had spoken to before. She asked to speak to me by phone the next day. I was in New York at the time, working at a coffee shop far from my girlfriend's place. I strained to think of a quiet place to talk where we wouldn't be interrupted by the gurgle of cappuccino machines or wailing sirens from the street. Finally, I walked out to a park on the east river and called the agent from my cellphone under a drizzling rain. The conversation was brief. She offered to represent me.

By the end of the call, it had started to pour. I took refuge under an overpass by the highway. I called my girlfriend, my parents, and my brother. Then I stood there waiting for the rain to pass, feeling a sensation that I had not felt in a long time--hope.

I spent the next three months developing the book proposal and juggling technology projects. The process brimmed with joyful creation and agonizing uncertainty. Finally, the proposal went out to some twenty publishers. Most of them passed on the project. Weeks went by without a word from my agent. I grew despondent and began to think about what I would do if no one published the book.

My girlfriend had to spend the month of December in Seattle for work, and I went with her. It would be the longest time that we had spent together. We stopped first in San Francisco, where I used to live and have many close friends. Two days before Thanksgiving, I gave my girlfriend a walking tour of the city. As we were walking down a pretty tree-lined street in my old neighborhood, my agent called. I had received an offer--with an advance. The publisher, my agent said, was very excited.

Seattle is a beautiful city, ringed by snowcapped mountains and tree covered islands. My girlfriend and I rented a little house near the University of Washington. We spent evenings exploring the city and weekends exploring the countryside. I did research in the university library and began to write my book in the coffeeshops. At the end of the trip, we talked about living together.

I'm back in New York now, writing at my favorite coffeeshop in the East Village where I once lived. I'm sitting by the window with a warm pot of tea. There is fresh snow on the ground, already gritty from traffic and soot. The sky is bright blue with translucent stripes of high white clouds. I love my work. I'm in love with a woman.

Sometimes you have to leave in order to return.