As eye rolling as this may be to utter, it is true. I can see why so many writers have come here and I can feel that it is a place that makes, er, them better.
As I walk around my fantastic town I see stories everywhere. I smell stories. I hear stories. I have not tasted a story yet, but I am sure a good knish will take care of that. It is just that kind of place where you feel it in the air and the life here begs to be interpreted.
I see faces so clearly as I walk on the street. And to me everyone in New York is beautiful. Life Magazine beautiful. Everyone in New York warrants an article. How they got here, why they stay, who broke their heart.
The European families that walk so calmly together and have perfect skin and four of the same nose. I love that. I want to write about them and why they walk so elegantly with thousands of years more practice on their bones and they don't seem stuck up about it either.
And there are the broken vets who eyes died a long time ago, but there is something deeper in there. And the lovers. Lovers everywhere: beautiful patrician, Kennedian-preppy ones and rollie pollie ones. There is the young guy who puts a hand on his girlfriend's butt as they walk up the stairs out of the subway. You know they will not last, but they need to rub up against each other in order to grow. And the African women with the white babies. This city teems with these duets. And the too long in the sun, knock-off toting old Jewish ladies with the voices of rusted fencing. You know they used to go to dances. At dance halls. With live bands. No more.
And the firemen and cops and nuns and hotel workers and the drummers. Loads of drummers. Keeping time, boys?
This is one big damned town that has a story on every corner in every face. It is all low hanging fruit for writers if they,we, choose to notice.
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