This weekend realized for the first time with fierce clarity; I am hopelessly, toxically, in love with New York. I came to this epiphany after midnight, while crossing time zones somewhere in the Midwest. The moon was full, the clouds a mysterious Rorschach swirl, and Rufus Wainwright was crooning a Leonard Cohen cover over the car radio.
I’ve never thought of myself as a die-hard New Yorker. I think that sort of personality archetype is reserved for the denizens of NYC as portrayed in superhero blockbusters. I live nowhere near Manhattan. I have more in common with Toronto than Brooklyn, geographically speaking.
But as I found myself deep in the American Midwest, it was hard not be aware of what a hopeless Yankee I am. I had a critical eye on everything; from the tall, willowy, beautiful nordic girls that seemed to spring up from the hay fields like straw, to the crème brûlée that had gone sticky-soft in the humidity. Even the trees seemed weaker to me, less dangerous than those dark, sharp pines I know and love.
My homesickness was fierce. The quaint innkeepers were too kind and personal. The squat old dog that sidled up to me at the local bar was too casual, too at home.
I’d never been more desperate for sarcasm. I had come to a strange land, and here I felt like the cynical monster.
However, despite my longing for home, I realized something desperately (painfully?) poignant about being adrift and far from your particular comforts.
Writers inherently spend an inordinate amount of time in their heads. Writing is solitary, and the process insulates you against reality as a necessity. You draw upon your memories, your dreams, your fears—all of it—in order to create. But as an artist and a creative soul, I realize I can’t feed it just my own recycled thoughts forever.
I need experiences to feed the engine. Good ones, bad ones, doesn’t really matter- they all go into the soup. This is the best creative fodder I have, and why I always travel if I’m given the chance. My favorite pastime is to fall in love with strangers.
Maybe love isn’t the right word, but I can’t think of a better one. The English language disappoints me in that shortcoming.
I like to try on their life for a moment, to imagine what existence might look like through that person’s eyes. I notice the details, a unique pin or necklace, an unusual taste in shoes, a bag with a worn strap. I can’t help but fill in the rest:
She’s not just a flight attendant; she’s reading Flaubert for her online lit course in stolen moments after takeoff. She found those quirky silver-spoon earrings at a little boho shop down the street from her apartment and wears them on days she wants to feel more whimsical than her life allows. She knows she should call her sister, but she tells herself a flimsy excuse that it’s the time zone difference that keeps getting in the way and not her own guilt.
I do this constantly. I can’t help it, my mind just fills it in. Little stories about the strangers passing through my life. They’ll never know, but I’m taking an ephemeral photograph of them as I go on my way. This is how I know, despite any job positions, titles, or marketing—I have a Poet’s heart.
Listening to Rufus belt out the verse, I can imagine that too. My heart aches vicariously, yet my soul doesn’t know the difference. He is singing another man’s song about a woman he’s never met, and I can still hear the truth of it in his voice. We are mirrors, endlessly reflecting fragments of other people’s stories back into art.
Somewhere between Illinois and Infinity, another poet hurtles by on a dark interstate, driven half mad by the moon.
In writing news, I wish I had something more to report. Author copies of my poetry chapbook are… elusive. I suspect they may be sitting in a USPS warehouse somewhere between me and California to be forgotten and buried like the holy grail. Or they may magically present themselves at my doorstep tomorrow. Until then, they are Schrödinger’s Poetry books and I won’t worry much about them.
I am still in the no man’s land of querying my novel for the moment, somewhere between being read and not being read, neither of which I can do much about so I don’t see the sense in fretting over that either.
I’ve been submitting some new pieces, but I confess they are getting stranger and stranger. I have a particularly raw non-fiction piece out there that I’ve got some hope for, a small packet of mean-spirited poetry that may or not be anyone’s cup of tea (including mine), and I’ve got a little micro-fic that touches on love and string theory that I think I adore more than anyone else because I find metaphysics addictive.
I’ve also recently dipped back into a historical fiction idea that’s been rattling around in my brain for too long, and I’ve been secretly plotting a standalone novel for one of my favorite characters from The Last Dawn because truly he deserves it.
The moon is calling once again—SMH
Currently Reading
My Darling Dreadful Thing by Johanna van Veem
This is such a delicate, honeyed, sapphic story. Johanna’s use of imagery and metaphor is a delight.
Prince of Thorns by Mark Lawrence
Very grimdark, much revenge. The back and forth non-linear storytelling is interesting, but time will tell if it pays off in the end.
At Dark, I am become Loathsome by Eric LaRocca
This is one I’ve had on my TBR for a while now, and what better time of year to begin! I’m highly excited.
My Cousin Rachel by Daphne Du Maurier
Re-reading a classic, purely for October vibes. If you’ve only read Rebecca, please read this.
The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie
This was one of my childhood favorites and for the fall, a mystery like this is such a warm cozy sweater. Did you know Dame Agatha actually disappeared once from the public eye and threw the whole UK into a tizzy? Points for drama.
The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue by V.E. Schwab
Looking forward to this, I’ve heard nothing but good things. Since I read ‘The Near Witch’ I’ve enjoyed her writing, and the Shades of Magic series was terribly fun. Also, justice for Holland.
Arthur Rimbaud; Complete Works translated by Paul Schmidt
I always need a little more vicious ache in my life, and Rimbaud never disappoints.
