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There's something to be said about the subway commute in new york. A far cry from the T, this beast of public transport (when not on strike) brings all sorts of people to all sorts of destinations.
Tired after a restless night on an air mattress, pre-caffeine and post the fifteen minute walk to the train, i stood (barely) crammed into the only car that would let me in. and near me? A man reading Love in the Time of Cholera. Marquez before 9AM? I dont think so. A woman standing facing me isn't holding onto anything but is maintating her balance while knitting? Right.
I have some places to look at this week (seeing one tonight) with the hope that one of them will work out (read: must learn to lower my standard of living).
Tomorrow is Thursday. It's one of the first Thursdays in a while that i won't be at the Pig. Leaving Boston is hard, at least for right now, as i'm in transition and missing my friends and old life. For such a large city, New York, at times, can be lonely.
My job is intense (just like the city) and talking to all these authors and being around all these books makes me eager to have something happen with mine. There are, currently, people I know all over the country who were mailed (before I left Boston) the first bound manuscript of my three-year-labor of, well, love i guess. One has to start somewhere and getting it off the key drive (yes, not floppy disk) and into the hands of readers, is the best way.
I'm still waiting to hear if perhaps I should indeed spend my time simply promoting writers instead of trying to be one.
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