N is for New York City

Once you fall in love with a place, you can never leave it, because the place never leaves you. NYC is such a place. It is the city where I feel like I belong.

NYC is more than a city to me–it is a being, and presence, in my life. NYC has taken care of me in ways I never thought imaginable, has watched my back, and changed the course of my life. It has saved my life. It has made my life. It is where I learned who it is I truly wanted to be, at the fulcrum of my life. Even if who I wanted to be would entail great fundamental change.

Even if the great fundamental change would nearly kill me. Even if NYC would bring about that fundamental change in spectacular fashion. It is the place that brought truth and forced me to see things around me as they really are. It is the place that brought me many great, true friends. Loyal and smart and courageous people.

I was born in New York City–Queens, to be exact. I spent my early childhood years in a nondescript brick apartment building overlooking the Long Island Railroad, spending days wheeled around by my grandmother in a stroller to a Korean-owned karate studio down the street, to chicken and pizza down the hill, to a sewing factory down the hill and around the bend, and a playground down the hill opposite of the sewing factory and pizza.

The pulse of life there is a tempo to which I set my life.

One time, a few years ago, I got on the 7 train to Queens. The train made a certain tha-thunk on the elevated tracks once we hit Queens–in that subway car I felt a great reunion between time and space; that sound, that rhythm has been with me my entire life. That specific tha-thunk. Tha-thunk. Tha-thunk.

I thought I’d imagined that sound.

But no, it was real.

I returned to NYC to reside as an adult, a few years ago. My husband at the time came home and said, “We need to talk.” I didn’t know about what we had to talk, but I was worried–could I have missed something between us? (Little did I realize). But then he said, “My boss wants us to move to NYC part time–would you be okay with that? It would be immediate.”

I think I said yes before he ended his question. I don’t know. All I heard was “EeeeeEEEEEeeeee!!!” in my head.

NYC was a centrifuge.

Some of the best times of my life were spent in the setting of that great city. I didn’t even mind the jackhammering (okay, I did). And I loved that I could step out into the sidewalk into a din that said with absolute certainty that this city was the center of the world.

I even loved the summers–the hot heat off the concrete, the water dripping off air conditioning units, and the balmy evenings walking the East Village sucking on popsicles.

I loved brief Spring, with the elation New Yorkers feel when the weather turns warm and the trees turn pink and white with blossoms. When New Yorkers ditch their boots and parkas and sweaters and don dresses and woven shirts. And walk around in shorts when it is 65F, just because it is no longer 30F.

I thought Winter, with its Christmas lights and frigid air and sidewalks slippery with ice or gritty with salt, was most charming. Especially when the snow fell and hushed the city.

And Fall. Of course Autumn, when I rifle through my drawers for my scarf, long buried through Summer, so that I can walk outside look up at the trees turning flame in Tompkins Square Park or Washington Square.

I loved running into friends on the streets of NYC, a thing that happened way more often than you would think in a city of millions. It made the world seem small, and my friendships large.

I loved that the city never slept–that I could have dinner at 11pm on a regular basis, if I so wanted. That food could come to me. That services were top notch. I loved apartment life.

I loved the honking cars. I loved that people honked cars.

I counted my rat sightings my first year in NYC. One time, when I was walking on 1st and 1st, a rat wove expertly through my feet as I walked. I did not scream. I giggled.

I wrote the bulk of my novel draft in NYC, at the Writers Room and at downtown cafes. I was so inspired.

And last month, I said goodbye to my NYC apartment. I did not say goodbye to NYC, because I plan on returning–but the lease was up, and I had to move my things out. I moved my possessions into a storage space into which the movers expertly fit a life. Everything went in. They shut the door, and I put a lock on it.

We were not sure all would fit in that small space, but nothing in my life was left behind.

That evening, we met with a friend at a bar, across the street from my now-empty apartment. I wasn’t sure how I felt–but that empty apartment did not feel as bad as I thought it would feel. I was leaving it as I left it. It felt like a fresh start for someone else, and a clean slate for myself.

A chapter had ended in my life, in more ways than one. I was a mom. I was newly single. I had fresh vows, all to myself. But I wasn’t sure if I felt hope or relief or elation or grief. In hindsight, I realize I felt them all.

The three of us were drinking whiskey at the bar. Toasting our lives. Talking dreams. Talking goals. Flinging jokes. Teasing each other. But at some point, it became too much. My grief welled up, and at that bar, I found no room for tears.

I excused myself and sat inside a bathroom stall and cried. I didn’t know for what I was crying, only that I was. But now I know. I was leaving New York. And it hurt. It felt like cleaving.

I had to leave NYC again. But the city will never leave me.

***

Joining Heather’s Abecedary, Fog City Writer, and other writers like Susan Ito in working through the alphabet with short, memoir-like pieces. Except I’m going to go in reverse, beginning with “Z.” It’s called Alphabet: A History.

Sleep No More: Novel Writing

Sleep No More, as described by The New York Times, is “‘Macbeth’ in a hotel,” because it’s kind of a play kind of performance art kind of voyeurism kind of spectator sport but not really any of the above. Which is why the NY Times calls it “‘Macbeth’ in a hotel”–the vaguest of monikers.

And yes, it has a little to do with Macbeth. But not really. Kind of.

The hotel in question is called “The McKittrick Hotel” built out of the ruins of three abandoned Chelsea warehouses (it’s not really a hotel, and never was a hotel, so again, kind of but not really).

Sleep No More is fiction down to the studs in which the audience spectators roam without agenda or direction. In which spectators are as much the performance as the actors; at one point, I looked around the room and wondered if the actors saw us in the same way we saw them, as we stood in masks that hid facial expressions.That they were our mirrors as we were unto them.

For the first hour, I roamed confused and alone and dismayed and frustrated and frightened, fighting every impulse to tear off my mask and leave. I didn’t really “get it” and felt very lost, just as one might feel when invited to a large, sprawling, ghostly, hotel all alone. But not really alone. Because you’re surrounded by other ghostly masks.

But then–a character rushed by, followed by a handful of white-masked spectators. I followed. Her hands bloodied, she attempt to wash them; ah, Lady MacBeth.

It was then I had a character to which I could be devoted. To follow. To be my proxy for the landscape. My curiosity intensified, and my fear receded. I followed the character through all manner of darkness to the end. A character can be a very effective tour guide.

My Sleep No More experience was not very different from my creative process. I understand that everyone’s experience is unique and based on the solitary–the performance is designed to that end, the masks making it so that people have a hard time reuniting within the space, the darkness making it so people cannot see each other. Together, but alone. Kind of.

Sleep No More:
I’m led through a winding tunnel void of light–some people feel their way through–and in my case, I yelped and a member of SNM’s staff walked me through, my hand on his elbow. Thinking I was going to DIE. Thinking no one told me about this darkness. Thinking what had I gotten myself into. Thinking hell no. Thinking I had to do this.

Novel-writing:
Darkness, (not so) coincidentally is a state that I associate with my creative process, and the source of my inspiration. It is discombobulating. It’s frightening. Terrifying. Like falling. Like dying.

pre-birthday thoughts on 2011 + novel lessons

It’s the day before my birthday, and the house is quiet right now. It is quiet, because the nighttime was busy–a sick wiener dog had us waking up every hour to tend to him/take him outside, which here means walking down a flight of stairs, bundling up in a jacket (it is in the 40s Fahrenheit at night) and watching the wiener dog circle and circle and circle, while you alternate between two thoughts: Poor little thing…and Little bastard!

You’d think the setting was perfect for some introspection: sick dog, tired humans, quiet Sierra morning, birds tweeting, the beautiful environs, and you’re the only one awake in the house. But no.

Maybe it’s because the year’s been so busy, but I don’t have a lot of introspection going into my birthday this year. Maybe that’s for the best, because introspection for me usually involves lying in my bed with the covers over my head bemoaning my incompetence/so many things left to do/the road ahead/a rush of feelings I’ve suppressed for months until that moment.

Or maybe I should do a little bit of looking back, so I can look a little bit forward.

So I’ve pondered my 2011 To Do List; I conjured up the list as a framework of experiences I desired in 2011. I didn’t expect to achieve so many things on the list, but I have–and the funny thing about “to do lists” is that in the process of doing those things, you end up having enriching experiences that have nothing to do with the list, but at the same time would not have happened if not for the list. I hope that makes sense. But it’s really these unexpected, spontaneous happenings between the anticipated happenings that give me delight.

I go to Margot Restaurant for Dominican food. It’s the best. It’s the thing I crave when I’m away from NYC. So when I’m in NYC, I go. But the surprises were the company I kept during dinner. And the realization that of all the restaurants in Manhattan, Margot is the only restaurant that recognizes me as a regular; I always get a glimmer of recognition out of the staff, a heartier-than-usual hello, and a warm smile. Yah, so I’m probably easily recognizable as the only Korean chick there, but I’ll take it. I’ll take it!

Then there’s another item on the list: a desire to see Central Park in wintertime. So beautiful. So treacherous. I love it so much. But there’s also no substitue for a crisp wintry day that has you holding your hunny’s hand as you step across black ice. Or listening to a musician braving the cold in the park. And then walking to Zabar’s for a knish.

And yet, just a few months later, the Park looks like this in Spring! And that’s when you realize–you don’t have allergies in NYC!  And you take off your jacket for the first time in months and wonder when the last time was that you, the sun-avoider, welcomed the sun so much. And then you go shopping for Passover so you can sit down for your first Pesach Seder in NYC. You miss home, you miss all your old cooking implements, you miss your old Seder plate, but you cobble together a simple Seder anyway.

I love the MoMA. My hunny and I went and saw the kitchen exhibit. And then my parents came to town, insisting on the Metropolitan Museum of Art. So you take them there. They walk through it at warp speed, just like you do. Only they’re examining the picture frames. Seriously. They have decided to get some picture frames for some artwork in their house, and they have decided to gain some inspiration from the Met for this purpose.

My dad appreciates the Greek Art, loves it, even. But when we go to the MoMA, he scowls. “This isn’t very good,” he says. I try very hard not to roll my eyes as he says the thing that so many people say about modern art, “I could do this.”

So I reply as I always do to that comment, “Then why didn’t you?”

Usually, that comment makes people think. My dad ignores me and says, with all the authority he can muster (and it’s a lot), “I don’t like it.”

I can’t argue with that.

We drove to Montauk in early Spring, before the crowds, and after the snow melted. My parents needed to get out of the City, and my husband and I wanted to see Montauk (after all, it was on my LIST)!

Beautiful, isn’t it? We saw the carcasses of many sea creatures–crabs, and several gulf of Maine sting rays. There’s something about a wild beach that makes me fall in love.

My hunny and I visited our beloved London. We decided to rent a car one day and just drive and see what was out there. At the last minute, we decided to check out the Cotswolds, without agenda or schedule (and barely a map).

This day of spontaneity turned out to be one of the best days of our lives. We drove through several towns that involved the world “Chipping” (Chipping Norton, Chipping Campden…) and stopped at Chastleton House (as you see below) and Blenheim Palace, and savored the English countryside with its rolling green hills accessorized with fluffy white sheep.

And if that wasn’t enough, and since we had some time left at the end of the day, we decided to head over to Bray…where we ate at Heston Blumenthal’s pub, Hind’s Head. Where I ate my first scotch egg! And an awesome oxtail and kidney pudding! And quaking pudding! The end!

My hunny and I (yes, he and I spend a lot of time together) also headed over to Paris via the Eurostar this year. Again, with no plans but to get to Paris, which seemed a lot less clean than I remembered it to be. And perhaps it’s because smoking is banned in nearly every public place in the U.S. and London, but there sure seems to be a lot of cigarette smoking (and littering thereof) going on.

Okay, that’s not fair. Paris is more than cigarettes. It’s L’as Dus Fallafel in the Marais, and the best buckwheat galette/Breton crepes I’ve ever eaten. L’as Dus Fallafel was on our list of to-dos…and Breizh Cafe was not. Oh, these Breton crepes are tremendous! And it later turns out that there is usually quite the line at this restaurant. Only we were seated immediately. Kizmet. (Of course, now I want a Breton crepe, and alas, Ti Couz in San Francisco has closed. Where can one get a very good buckwheat crepe in the SF Bay Area now)?

We also had salted caramel ice cream from Berthillon, and that was just amazing–Berthillon was on our list of things to do, and the search for it was our only argument of the day! The funny thing, which dissolved our tension immediately was that it was under our noses the entire time. Like, straight in front of us. But anyway–the salted caramel ice cream is second to none, not even Bi-Rite in San Francisco.

And along the way, we also gathered quite a few questions.

Like, what is this? It’s this flippy metal thing on the Eurostar train trays. WHAT.IS.IT?

The thing is–that life is the magic that happens between planned events. The detours and the questions and the emotions and the kizmet and the surprises and delights that occur on your way to or from pre-planned destinations.

It’s like that with novel-writing, too. I have an outline, and milestones–but then there is this magic that happens on the page on the way to/from these milestones. Those happy, magical detours (the ones that make for the best days of our lives) are what I pray for as I write.

Now I’ve got to get back to my novel. Because the best birthday present I can give myself is a few pages of which I can be proud.

…and an amazing time was had: VONA 2011 + Pride

This was the BEST.VONA.EVAR. (I think I say this every year).

But really: the fucking lightbulb went on over my head during my week at VONA. Junot took me by the shoulders and pointed me in a direction I hadn’t yet seen–and then he and my workshop peers took a metaphorical flashlight and turned it on. And there it was: a path. I now know the way to the end of my novel, through all the revisions ahead. And I’m going to do it, knowing that there are people who believe in me, and in this manuscript. Who “get it.”

I can’t even tell you the sense of relief and elation and gratitude I feel.

You see, my goal for this revision was to work on characterization. I knew the characters lacked 3D…but I learned what lacked was STORY. Their stories. Ding ding ding!

I’ve been writing this thing for nearly 7 years. Not a straight 7 years, as I took a 2 year break from the novel while I recovered from a freaky deaky left thalamic stroke that left me with no short term memory (something, I cruelly discovered, that is critical to writing narrative). But still: 7 years. And I can now see my destination.

It’s still a ways off in the distance–and there’s still a lot of work and revision ahead of me–but it’s just work. And more importantly, I am almost done (almost being at least 3 more revisions). Just being able to see the Emerald City on the horizon after all this time on the yellow brick road (or if you prefer another metaphor–the New World after sailing across the ocean)–feels like relief. And hope. And joy. I’ve got my second wind now. And with that second wind, I hope I breath more life and stories into my characters. And that my readers will feel that second wind!

Now I’m experiencing re-entry into my world. The last time I had such a hard time re-adjusting was after my three week residency at Hedgebrook. I was changed then, and I am changed now. But nothing else has changed. And no one seems to know I’ve changed. Things feel out of sync. I’m bewildered and bewildering.

And so I find myself taking a deep breath. I’m saving that breath for my novel. And in my real life, I am settling back into normal patterns, so that I can fit back into my real life.

Immediately upon my return to NYC this weekend, I went to Pride–in my 20+ years in the SF Bay Area, I’d never been to a Pride Parade, for no good reason other than not wanting to deal with traffic, which is like–a really bad reason. So like with yoga, it took NYC to get me to Pride. And what a Pride it was! The jubilance in the wake of the passage of NY’s Marriage Equality Law was amazing. I cried tears of joy, and my voice went hoarse along the parade route.

But I gotta admit–I think some of those tears of pride were for myself. I’m a self-critical writer, and I rarely feel proud of myself as a writer–but in that moment along the parade route, in the wake of immense writing encouragement and support at VONA, I felt rare pride in my writing. And it took Pride to swallow me up and allow me room for my private moment of pride.

I also went to the Alexander McQueen show at the Met yesterday afternoon (like I said, I’m not jumping straight back into my writing–I’ve gotta digest all the epiphanies from last week)–and that show is a masterpiece. All those beautiful, groundbreaking clothes–created from the dark places in McQueen’s heart. It was like a torch for me and my writing.

Afterword:
If you are a writer of color serious about your craft and seeking community and mentorship…get thee to VONA. Apply. It happens every summer in the SF Bay Area (this summer, VONA moved to the Berkeley campus). It’s been life changing for me, and game changing for my writing. If you have attended VONA in the past and/or want to support writers of color, consider making a donation to VONA.

Quick blog post, June 15, 2011

I am sitting down to write for the first time in weeks. Life has been hectic, albeit in celebration, these days. Lots of parties, outings, (non-writing) work, meetings, travel. I wonder at times if the world is cold-blooded; now that the temperatures have risen, the pace of activity has quickened.

And in the face of a frenetic social schedule and steamy summer, I find myself fantasizing about winter–a time of year when the ubiquitous jackhammers silence, the snow casts a monochromatic scheme over things, and getting dressed is mostly about getting that down parka over my jeans and tshirt. (Yes, I spend almost the entirety of winter in a tshirt and jeans under a parka). I love when nighttime outweighs daylight and a party is not outdoors but cast in lamplight and candles. You’d find me happy in wintertime Narnia.

Winter is the time of year when I get most of my writing done. I am not sure why this is, but after numerous writing seasons, this is confirmed as fact. Thankfully, I normally live in San Francisco, where summer is one long glorious winter.

But it’s summer in NYC, where it can get so sweltering that my legs become slick with sweat (sexy, I know). I’ve stocked up on summer dresses. I’ve cut my hair. I’m trying to figure out summer makeup. And I’m writing and seeing how it goes.

Because I haven’t blogged in awhile–thought I’d do a “quick blog post” as an update.

Read/Reading:

• Nova Ren Suma’s debut YA novel, Imaginary Girls. Buy it.
• Beginning to read manuscripts from VONA. Did I mention VONA before? I got a lot of rejections in the past few weeks (everytime I opened my mailbox, it seemed there was a lightweight envelope addressed in my own handwriting)…but I will be in Junot Díaz’s fiction workshop this summer. I haven’t had workshop with him since 2005, and I’m excited about working with Junot again.
• Can you believe I’ve never read Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse? So I’m picking it up.

Wrote/Writing:

• My novel. I am trying very hard to work on nothing else.
• But I did write up my parents’ visit to NYC, and in particular, their jaunt to Queens, over at AAWW’s Open City blog.

Viewed:

• A lightning storm from inside a jet. I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye, and I looked out the plane window. I’d missed whatever it was. Then another flash in my peripheral vision–was my retina detaching? I kept my eyes on the infinite black horizon–and there, there I saw it: an illumination of the clouds beneath. Lightning storm down below. It was like the animation of synapses firing inside a brain, the clouds brain matter and lightning, genius.
• Too many couples breaking up on the streets of Manhattan to count.
• An “I love my dildo!” sticker on a residential vehicle in San Francisco’s Mission.
• Sailors falling-down-drunk during Fleet Week.
• Bridesmaids. The female response to The Hangover–booyah!
• Lots of nekkid people looking out their windows in the hotel across the street.

Memorable eats/Culinary outings:

• Fine dining Israeli food at Zahav in Philly. Israeli food is much more than pita and hummus, people!
• Too many great meals in Manhattan (some upscale, many more cheap eats)–I’ll have to do a different post on my favorite eats here.
• Everytime I return to the Bay Area–the first thing I want when I get off the plane is a Gordo burrito. If I land too late to get a Gordo burrito, I just get it the next day. NYC has Dos Toros (a direct derivation of Gordo) and it is good–but isn’t the same.

Cooked:

• Oh holy crap, I’m turning into a New Yorker; I don’t think I’ve cooked anything substantial in weeks, not even when I was in San Francisco.

Happenings:

• I have an excerpt from my novel out in Men Undressed: Women Writers on the Male Sexual Experience. I’ve been trying to keep my lips sealed on this until closer to publication date (in October), but I can’t keep it closed anymore! The book is available for pre-order from Amazon–and yes, it features a sex scene from my novel.
• My short story “Ume” will be out in Kweli Journal’s June issue. The piece holds a special place in my heart, because it was the first piece I began and finished after my stroke, from which I took about 2 years to recover. “Ume” was inspired by a friend who told me a story in hopes that it would awaken a part of my damaged brain, and the story brought me hope that I could write again.
• Tamiko interviewed me about writing and MFAs as part of her “(private)” MFA series at kikugirl. I had fun reflecting on my MFA experience, and I hope some of it will resonate with you.
• I have a stigmata on my left foot. When I slammed my foot by accident into a spike, I at first thought, “OW, what did I hit?” and then thought, “This is a very particular kind of bruise–this hurts more than a bruise.” I looked down. I saw the hole.in.my.foot. And then I started crying hysterically as I ran for a bandaid.

Never happened:

• The Rapture

NYC, 1970

Above left: my father in front of his gas station in 1970. Above right: my father in front of his former gas station (now a BP) in 2011.

My mom and dad came to visit me in NYC a few weeks ago. My dad hadn’t been to NYC since he left town in 1978. He has many aged maps in his head of places that really no longer exist in the world. The Korea he knows, no longer exists. And the New York City he knows, no longer exists. SoHo does not exist in his mind. The Bowery is off limits. Queens is picturesque. The subways are covered in graffiti.

We went around and visited my parents’ various haunts. Their grocery store in Yorkville, which they owned for a short time in the early 1970s no longer exists. The hospital at which my mom worked has grown in size over the decades such that it took my mom a few minutes to recognize the building.

My parents’ faces wore an expression of shock. On the subway, they insisted on standing so that they could see out the windows and observe the city. Other passengers offered up their seats. We refused. They insisted. I told them why. They were delighted. Had the city changed? A lot my father said. A lot. He stuck his tongue out.

But other places still exist as is–the subway system it self, the freeways, the apartment building in which they lived with me as a newborn, the pizzeria we frequented, and even the gas station my dad used to own and at which he worked, daily.

Meanwhile, the city was changing under my feet, too–my history of the city through my parents’ eyes, and in the literal ticking of time.

The shore of an ocean or river will change a craggy rock over time. And time will do that to a city.

For more on my parents’ trip, you can read my write up on the Asian American Writers’ Workshop Open City blog.

The carrots, the carrots!

Why? How? Why…?

Really. Why are the carrots SO BIG out here in NYC? The carrot you see above is typical of carrots in NYC–just…ginormous. It was procured at Fairway Market in Harlem–but I have seen similarly sized carrots at the Union Square Greenmarket, too.

Do they grow a different variety out here because of climate/soil? I have so many questions. So.many.questions.

But for now: NYC Carrots. #WINNING!

Also, I had the most WINNING (yes, Charlie Sheen’s “WINNING” has replaced “FTW” in our vernacular) ramen today at Ippudo. It was ramen-mazing:

I promise, this blog will get back to regularly scheduled programming soon. But it’s been a crazy week: I got the flu (some mega-germ traveled in someone’s body fluid (spit?) onto my hand, into my mouth, into my flu-shot-immunized body, braved the elements, and managed to take over the ship). This hijacking occurred during the week we were moving apartments. Any vertically-oriented minute was spent unpacking, or shlepping my body over to the new place.

Monday begins a new week: back to the novel. 🙂

And something I’ve been meaning to throw out for some time…
You should read Mat Johnson’s* amazing new novel, PYM. I just finished reading it, and did not want to put it down. The voice, the plot, the themes! If you don’t believe me, read the NY Times review, the Wall Street Journal’s review of PYM, or Salon’s book review.

And you should read Vida by Patricia Engel**, too. Pitch perfect stories that were recently optioned into/as a film. And for the record, Michiko Kakutani of the New York Times LOVED it.

*Mat is a friend and mentor/teacher of mine. Just sayin’.
**Patty is a good friend of mine–we met Mat together. Also, just sayin’, in the interest of full disclosure.

Intimacy at the center of the world

NYC is crawling with people doing all kinds of things–couples are breaking up on the street, smokers are huddling in doorways catching one last drag on a cigarette, UPS and FedEx dudes are pushing wheely dollies piled precariously sky-high with boxes, models are teetering on toothpick legs on stiletto heels, businessmen are in camel hair topcoats headed downtown, tourists are in ski jackets ambling down the avenues, restaurant delivery men are balancing meals in plastic bags on handlebars, their own hands wrapped in plastic bags against the cold, people are walking their dogs…the list goes on.

Meanwhile, the high rises create wind tunnels down the street–the wind gets stronger as you get closer to the Hudson on the east-west streets. The buildings are so high, you snap your head all the way back, and you still can’t see where they end from down below. I live in a high floor of my (current) apartment building, high enough to see most downtown rooftops. Just the other day, I spotted a hawk on a neighboring rooftop, hanging out, as I was, enjoying the view, as I was.

Leave it to me to spot some nature in downtown Manhattan. I like the nature. (p.s. we spotted our 4th rat the other day–in the East Village, on 2nd avenue. It was dead, but still, it was rat #4).

It’s a city that can make you feel real small, though I’ve been feeling pretty amazing since I’ve arrived, even when I had to pick up my car from the tow yard, where in the intake window, the meanest people in the world work. But no harm no foul, I just sat down and smiled, because I was in freaking New York City! One dude looked at me, and said, “Glad you have something to smile about.”

And I looked back at him, and said, “Might as well smile. It already sucks that my car got towed! Why make it suckier?”

He looked at me as if I was insane. Because as you know, New Yorkers don’t really laugh. Bwahahahaha.

I guess there’s more than a little bit of California in me–while in California, I’m a tense, impatient person with more than a touch of New Yorker….in New York City, I’m laid back. Who knew?

Also, I got my car back faster than anyone else. Because the Mean People purposely made the angry people wait longer.

9 million people in NYC. I’m one.

I’m one person coming home from the Junot Díaz reading the other night on a downtown train…and then I look up from my crackberry: and there’s my brother, right in front of me. In an H&R Block advertisement.

I got up, and asked people’s pardon–could I take a picture of that ad? It’s my brother! (He didn’t know he was appearing in this advert, and thus I was completely astonished, as was he). They obliged with visible amusement. He’d been anonymous to them before, anonymous to millions of New Yorkers. Now there was connection.

I wouldn’t have run into that advertisement anywhere else. It took a place filled with people to see this ad. And that’s a lot of why I’m here.

Gearing up

I bought a pair of wellies yesterday. I was on my way to the Writers Room in a pair of Keen boots, a pair of boots that have served me well for over 3 snowy and rainy winter seasons in various climes. But no more. They were no longer waterproof, the leather cracked and faded. My socks felt damp in the shoe. Being mid-calf height, they didn’t protect me from backsplash, either (I have this way of walking that apparently splashes water up onto the backs of my calves).

I walk to and from the Writers Room each day; normally, the slush and “slush lakes” are navigable. But not yesterday–the slush lakes were enormous, the streets unplowed after a substantial snowstorm. I leapt over several lakes. And did not make the leap most times. I imagined future snowstorms. And then after that, spring rains. And summer rains. More puddles to come.

Around me, I observed the ways in which people managed the slush and ice puddles. Gingerly. With leaps. With trepidation. Taking the long way around them.

And then I noticed those in rubber boots: they trudged straight on through.

That was it.

I gave in. I made a detour. I went to a store. I asked for wellies. I wasn’t the only one; they only had 2 colors left in very few sizes, freeing me up from the agony of deciding between black vs green vs red vs navy vs yellow. (Apparently, I’m not the only one in dire need of wellington boots. Tretorn was sold out as well). Hunter green wellies, it was!

I’d heard that Hunters are narrow in the calves–but they slid on with ease. I bought a pair that were slightly large, just in case I needed a little extra wriggle room for jeans, later. I walked out in wellies. I came up to the first puddle and…I just walked on through.

So I’m geared up. To walk. To write.

I’ll be writing while everyone is at AWP. I’ll miss being at AWP, but I’ve made revising my novel a priority. It’s what I got to do. It’s what I’m geared up to do.