Some Thoughts on Writing

Some Thoughts on Writing…

I am not a writer.

When I was three I was a parrot. In fact, it is still a running joke in my family.

My grandparents were convinced that I was a prodigy because I could memorize  Golden Story Books and I knew when to turn the page; they thought I was reading. My dad would have to tell them, “No. My child is just a parrot.”

I am a good mimicker. I can easily adapt to other forms of writing (and apparently co-opt forms of writing) either consciously or unconsciously. As someone who critiques very, very amateur writing for a living I often have to emphasize the concept that “more is more”, because no one abuses language like a non-writer.

For my peers who aspire to be writers and have asked for my very small opinion on writing I usually have to use the phrase “Use your words like a scalpel, not a hammer”, because nobody abuses language like a writer.

For my own narrative I might as well adopt the phrase “I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV”.  I am not a writer, but I write.

I have a large but limited lexicon and most of the time it does not translate well to written form because I do not enjoy writing the way I speak to the world. I write the way that I speak to people, and there is a difference.

My personal library has shrunk to a depressing state since I moved to a new state (ba dum pum. I love puns, by the way). I have the privilege of shopping for new books and I spend my New York money on a New York past time: reading on the subway. I read more in a week than I did in six months when I was driving everywhere. It’s amazing how much you can read in 18 minutes and six subway stops. Here’s how much of a book nerd I have advanced to in record time:

I was studying in Washington Square Park the other day and a guy approaches me.

Guy: Hi there. I work for Time Out New York (hip magazine) and I am doing a piece on the best places to pick people up within the city. What do you think is the best place to pick people up?

Me: …

Guy: Take your time.

Me: Can I see some ID? (Not a joke; I actually made him show me his press pass and two forms of identification.)

Mental process: Now I have to actually think of a place where people pick up strangers…

AS IF I KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT PICKING UP STRANGERS. Do I look like some floosy? Who does this guy think I AM? I am wearing GAP jeans and I have a sweater on from the outlet mall.

Crap. I need a good answer. THIS GUY THINKS I AM CAPABLE OF PICKING UP STRANGERS!!!

[Note: I went from being threatened to insulted to flattered in a matter of seconds.]

Me: Well… I guess The Strand. Huge used bookstore off of Broadway….

You get the idea. I was actually able to save the answer to sounding halfway knowledgeable on where people pick up…other people in random locations in a city where the next best thing is right around the corner. They even called to fact check me, but I never confirmed my response. Sadly, my name will never be in print as “The Woman Who is Responsible for Romance in the Romance Section”. (Another pun, you say? Don’t mind if I do!)

Lately I have been reading so much Nora Ephron that I subconsciously stole a format of hers in my last blog. Just the format, not the writing. I read it MONTHS ago. I hadn’t looked at it since July and yet her writing totally entered my grey matter and transposed itself onto my MacBook.

I adore her writing and few things have made me sadder in recent readings and reviews than knowing I will never get to meet her. I also know that she was someone who tried on many hats and styles before she found her own, so perhaps she would forgive my ineptitude for finding my own yet.

If you haven’t read her work, you should start today. Nora Ephron makes me laugh until I cry and she has some pretty remarkable, simple but stylish, thoughtful and thought-provoking things to say about life and romance and this city and all of the little things that have brought you to wherever you are sitting as you read her books.

So read Nora Ephron and remember that her books can be found at The Strand where you might find the love of your life according to an anonymous source in Time Out Magazine (Online version [Did not get asked for the print version. Bollocks.]) But even if you don’t find romance in the romance section, you will enjoy her books just the same.

And each chapter can be read in exactly 18 minutes and six subway stops.

Where I Live

Let me tell you about where I live.

I live in New York City. In NYC there are five boroughs: Manhattan, Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island. (Although, no one has heard from Staten Island since 1972. We're not even really sure if it's still there.) When you live in NYC, be prepared for people to ask you where you live. Subsequently be prepared to have this seemingly harmless question spawn a plethora of terms that I had not heard in relationship to living space...ever. The following terms will arise when someone mentions their residential status in NYC:

Gentrified.
Bridge and Tunnel.
Hipster.
LES.
UES.
UWS.
LWS.
Yuppies.
Trust Fund Babies.
My Landlord's niece, uncle, sister, or daughter who is taking over my apartment so I have to move out.


This list is not exhaustive, but rest assured that as soon as you mention your neighborhood, people will try to classify you into one or many of these divisions.

I live in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is considered bridge and tunnel because you have to take a bridge and/or tunnel to get to it. For the record, everyone is bridge and tunnel if you live outside of Manhattan. Be prepared to have friends that refuse to go bridge and tunnel to see you if it means they have to leave Manhattan.

Be prepared to immediately drop these friends. No one has been able to live in Manhattan since the 80's and even then, if your rent was affordable, you had to do without luxuries... like heat and windows. And maybe even clean air.

When you live in Brooklyn, you are welcomed by the benevolent folk of Manhattan, but sort of pitied at the same time. These days almost anyone who is under forty and works for the government or is artistically inclined can be found living in Brooklyn. Brooklyn has become acceptable if you give back to the world, either artistically or through civil service... but which neighborhood to choose?!!


I live in Williamsburg. Oh, yes. Now you've figured out where to live, and you have chosen a neighborhood that either impresses or revolts your audience. I told a coworker the other day that we were having a party at my apartment and when he asked which neighborhood I lived in, immediate trepidation overcame him. His response you ask? "I'm not cool enough to hang in Williamsburg." Williamsburg has been gentrified from the neighborhood it once was... all of fifteen years ago (because it takes no time for things to change around these parts). Williamsburg has been likened in recent NY articles to Greenwich Village (or what people remember Greenwich Village to have been thirty years ago). There is an abundance of creative people here, with glasses, facial hair, plaid shirts, and vintage ______. Apparently anything can be vintage with the right window dressing and knowledgable salesgirl. As long as it's old and you put the label "vintage" on it, you can mark up the price by about 200%. I have cracked the code to owning a resale clothing store stocked with sweater vests and Doc Martins from the 90's. Truth be told, if any store owner was really doing their research, they could save a pant load of cash and time from buying back local hipster's clothing and just call my parents in Texas. My dad has been waiting for someone to call and offer him any amount of cash to take on the overalls and Doc Martins that he refuses to let me give to the Salvation Army "just in case".


I live off the Lorimer stop. Here comes the immediate relief, and sometimes pity that people develop when they find out you do not live off of Bedford Ave. Bedford Ave. is exactly one stop before mine. It is exactly three stops from Union Square and one stop from 1st Avenue (Manhattan's LES). I can walk to Bedford Ave. from where I live. In fact, everything in Williamsburg is walkable, but it might as well be on the other side of the bridge, in my very naive opinion. When I get on the train at Union Square, I almost have to sit in a stranger's lap to get a spot. Painfully I wait (and grunt) along with everyone else on the train as we slosh to and fro on this line of steel... until we hit Bedford Ave. Mass exodus takes place as "all the beautiful people" exit the train. Fishnet pantyhose, Nantucket red shorts, and tattoos all escape the line of steel, and the rest of us are left to watch as they make their way up to the North Side of Williamsburg.


I live in a loft. I am immediately cool by proxy because of the people with whom I live (I came late to the party) and where we live (It was decorated when I got here). Two of my roommates speak other languages fluently. One of my roommates can design houses. One is the boss at their job. One knows all about film and things film-ish. I am still trying to find a skill, although since all-things-domestic annoy me and I have no party tricks, I am going to have to think fast. Our building has a landlord who is somewhere between the ages of 17-34, although none of us really know. He himself has many skills, one of which includes hiring a super that likes to grunt at us and a sidekick for the super, who doesn't grunt, but just smiles as we come home to find them painting the stairs for the 17th time this week. Although we never see any progress, we know they have been there due to the brilliant color scheme (brown, lime green, and now back to brown) and the fumes (Surely they are using lead-free paint, right? I mean, WE LIVE IN WILLIAMSBURG. WE DO THINGS ORGANICALLY AROUND HERE!)

If it was eleven years ago today, you would be able to see flames and smoke from the roof of my apartment. I'm glad that I remember where I was on that day, and I'm glad that I wasn't here. I am not brave enough to stay calm and persevere through something like that. Not when it is just a bridge or tunnel away. And so I sit; someone who used to be a Lone Star (State) has now joined an Empire (State). In the wake of horrible tragedy, I remember where I was eleven years ago, but more than ever, I am aware of where I am today. I live in New York City. I am Bridge and Tunnel. I am (gulp) a Hipster. I live in Brooklyn. I live in Williamsburg. I live off the Lorimer stop. I live in a loft. I am home.