Be Careful What You Wish For
I was always aware of the magic and the misery of being a writer. Like most children, I watched my father carefully and witnessing both the triumph of his work being praised and the bitterness of rejection, I had a skewed vision of what it might mean to commit. Thus, I did not. While taking a full load of English classes, I majored in history and dismissed suggestions to submit my fiction despite high praise from many qualified people. While I might have been regarded as a child and adult who wrote, I basically saw the profession as hopeless. I failed to submit anything until I was fired from my job and had the time to think about writing something like a novel. How did I write that novel? At waitress stations and on the subway, waiting for buses and doctors, in moments between breakfast and leaving for work, during nights when it was possible to stay awake, typed on an electric typewriter, revised and edited sometimes based on my refusal to retype something.
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New York is My Sanctuary
New York City in the late eighties was a mix of crime, poverty, wealth, and an intense focus on work. Women in suits and sneakers were everywhere, people getting into limousines, and people sleeping on grates and in the parks. It was noisy and dirty, and if you found yourself walking across Morningside Park after dark, a NYC cop would say, “You looking to get killed, lady?”
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How I Became a Novelist
Unemployment is weird, especially in a city like New York, where everyone seems to be working, from the CEOs getting out of their limousines to the street vendors to regular people with standard jobs. As the weeks passed, I was aware my need for a routine meant I had to invent one. Since I no longer had the money for a gym, I began to run in Central Park, which was just a few blocks from my apartment. I went to more AA meetings, always a good thing and started taking marathon walks from my apartment on 69th and Broadway south to the World Trade Center.
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