I always fancied myself some kind of fancy New York City or Parisian writer. I could almost see myself in Paris having deep conversations with Ernie. Sometimes I thought I might be a good English professor mulling over The Oven Bird and all of Emily Dickinson’s poems about death.
When my fear of flying and then my fear of overcrowded spaces settled in, I had resigned myself to the ordinary. An ordinary life not in LA or Buenos Aires, but just in the middle of nowhere here in upstate NY.
But this week, scanning away for comma errors, writing an afterword for the book project that hopefully will be in the designer’s hands by midnight tonight, I realized that there just is no better place to be than wherever I am. There is no secret writing place, there are no wonderful people hiding out in clubs in NY. There all around me, the writing places and the wonderful people.