WRITE ON NEW YORK
Networking is the new writing. But the true soul of most writers is solitary and even anti-social. We are all Salingers, hiding out behind high walls, although not all of us can afford four hundred acres and a bluff overlooking the Connecticut valley.
So while most New Yorkers are complaining about depression in the face of this never-ending snow, I feel vindicated in my desire to close the door, don my jammies, and sit here clacking away at the keyboard for hours on end.
When it’s freezing out, I cocoon inside. Here is my coffee, here is my keyboard, my cat. There is no pressure to be anything such as sociable, popular, or accessible. There is no expectation of being, as my son Shane who lives in LA put it, “blooming like a hothouse plant.” Shane is a true writer and a true New Yorker: he needs a spot of grey, finds stories in the gloom. This is why cities like New York are far better to write in than, say, LA or even Paris with its nonstop fountains. Writers like their cities frozen.
Do I ever venture out? Of course; I’m going out today to meet the founder of this very site, Kennedy Moore, who kindly has agreed to come all the way to Ditmars Park to meet up with me. I don’t hate seeing people; most writers are introverts but we have extroverted sides. Out in the world, with a few glasses of rum in us, we can be jocular and hail-hearty, handing out cards and making chit-chat along with the best natural social jocks, because a big part of writing is observing the human animal. And also, we do get lonely.
Loneliness feeds the writing. When Virginia Woolf enjoined female writers to secure a room of one’s own, that’s because the closed door, the spotted window, the hushed sounds bring the muse; a shy messenger. I am fortunate to have not just a room but an apartment and in a winter such as this, the windows are frosted, the light is dim, and from somewhere far off, I can just hear the scrape of snow being shoveled.
Out there, someone is sweating, digging and in my neighborhood, that someone may be an Orthodox Jewish grandmother shoveling in heavy garments and wig. She may be praying.
I don’t have to shovel. There is nothing I have to do. I’m even ignoring Facebook with its sugared feel-goodisms that get blown around in all sorts of weather. In the hidden, snowy city, I am here at home. Later, when the snow melts, I’ll emerge, hopefully with a breath of fresh air and a big fat script.
To read more from Diana check back next Wednesday here on AANY
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