Just got back from THE BEST CITY IN THE WORLD. Once upon a time I was a Manhattanite, but as I was reminded (What? No subway tokens? Is there really a GAP on every block or am I just imagining it?) that was a loooong time ago.
But that's why I heart New York. It's always in flux, always changing. But then, so am I.
The last time I visited I was not writing and wouldn't for years to come. Fear kept me from pounding out beyond a few pages. What if I sucked? Then I would not be able to dream that particular dream and at least one ventricle of my heart would shut down. I couldn't take the risk. No way.
But then, I did. I'm not sure why. Maybe for the same reason I drove to NYC at 22 with no job, no home, no connections. Something compelled me. I HAD to. That's really the only reason.
So this visit was different. I came up from the Lincoln Tunnel and took a great big gulp of New York air. I met with Jo, my fabulous agent, and we talked about books and writing and publishing. She took me to The Strand (church for writers) and then to the Nancy Coffey/Fine Print offices (Yeah, I almost stopped breathing when I met Nancy).
On the way back to my hotel I wanted to cry on my cabbie's shoulder. I felt legit. I felt like my dreams might really come true. I felt like a writer.
And that's the best souvenir ever.