So, I've just come from a writing salon & workshop in NYC and CT with author/mentor Jennifer Lauck. More on the workshop soon...after I've time to process the experience, but the salon was the first night, and it was in New York City and I know I should be cool and love it, but I just don't. Not one bit. Stepping out of the train station, the noise alone was enough to knock me over(wonder where Riley gets it)?
I had several hours to kill between train and writing salon and I lugged my heavy bags around and couldn't find anywhere to go to the bathroom! I went to a little cafe and sat eating my $10.00 salad, crammed elbow to elbow with a woman at the next table. Public bathrooms were almost impossible to score. I found a library and even there I had to wrestle a key off the librarian in the children's section and I couldn't set my bags down on the floor of their squalid john. Its smell could put a port-a-potty to shame.
I went for a walk and watched the city children play in their filthy little cages posing as playgrounds. Dirt, dirt, dirty. No room to run. No air to breathe.
I met up with writer Jenny Rough and we went for a short stroll in Central Park. It was nice, but nice as in....my back yard is nice. Just as nice as this. And it's mine. All mine! People, pigeons, all of yous'...get away from me! Ack!
No, I don't love NY but...the guy behind the counter at the crowded cafe..so sweet. The woman I clunked elbows with eating my salad....so helpful. The family who offered up their lovely apartment to host the salon, unbelieveably gracious! Shelly who organized...so talented, helpful and kind. The published authors who gave their time to talk to us fledglings, so candid and witty and honest and unpretentious. The new writers I met were delightful!
No offense New Yorkers, I may not like your city...
but I heart you.