Nobody writes them like they used to, so it may as well be me.
Hello, my name is Laura.
And where I’m now, I’m sitting on the steps in front of a currently closed boutique on Bleecker (it’s called Roni and it’s got rather incredible unaffordable frocks…but that’s not what’s important). I walked down my favorite street (West 10th, with its brownstones and thick flanks of trees and charming apartments) and watched the perfect full moon behind a thick hazy layer of fog or clouds. It’s hard to tell.
I’m struggling. And terrified of a future, an empty job hunt, internships floated out of my finger tips.
I’m a silly girl. I have a lot of big aspirations and ambitions. And so far, I’ve had pretty good luck achieving most of them, especially the big ones. I’ve got a lot of stupid, superficial ambitions too. (So superficial, in fact, that revealing them will probably reveal me to be a lesser person.)
But, I have one passion above others, not a hobby by choice but driven by need.
My over active anlaytic mind, my endless daydreams. Beneath those irrational, glamorous seeking exterior fantasies I’m driven only by my absolute need to write.
Discover stories, live them, and tell them.
And that’s what, in large part, NYC is about. It’s the friend unlike anyone I’ve known before, the array of endless places to go, sights to see. Yes, of course. It’s the streets and the skyline, the four seasons, the history, the culture.
But mostly because New York is alive and throbbing with the pulse of thousands each with a story, a moment. Beauty, trembling, hopeless beauty. When I’m here, I feel like my fingers can graze the surface of that. When I’m here, I can create it, vivid and exaggerated with a few lines (or pages and pages.)
It’s marveous, and thrilling, and terribly dangerous.
Because, oh, how easy it is, to be lost in the city (literally and metaphorically.)
There are tons of voices, and talent, artists lurking at every unknown theater, coffee shop, Brooklyn party. Millions of people with the same aspiration. Some of the best, unnoticed, undiscovered, working unsatsifying jobs trying to survive.
This city is hard—it never holds your hand. It’s that impossibly beautiful boy you see strutting down t street, with eyes sharp as razors, who’ll meet your glance, give the slightest flicker of the lips in a half smile. And dare you to stop him.
It’s a brimming opportunity, but it begs for a furiosity and determination. If you want him, and you want him badly enough, you have to chase him down. Tie his hands, choke his lips with words until you’re breathing the same stories, beating the same heartbeat.
But in the meanwhile, you’re empty, lost. Without signs that you’re roaming the right neighborhood, that he might glance your way.
And oh, oh. What wouldn’t I give for a single moment of validation, of someone, an agent, editor, publisher, admired writer to look me in the eyes and tell me: you have talent. You are meant to do this. You will do this. And you will do this right.
What wouldn’t I give for one letter, one sign that I’m getting it right. Even a little. But maybe a sign isn’t even enough.
I want that impossibly perfect boy with his wrists, bruised, rubbed red and raw from chains, chain of my stories, ideas, bolted down, wet lips slightly open and gasping for more. I want him begging for what I can offer—and not just a stray glance on the street.
I want him to cut out every single part of me and wring it, blood seeping from every pore, eyes empty sockets, skin broken and bones pieces. I want him to destroy me so that I can have him, and these words to be something more than that. Just words.
So, I’m reconsidering. I’m calming down. I have time. I have potential (that I need to exploit until there is nothing left but a brittle shell I’ll break with a stomp of a stiletto heel). Worst case scenario, I’ll spend summer writing and submitting. Home. It wouldn’t be so bad. I’ll have my camera, my bus pass, the rolling oceans, the comfort of my room…and most importantly, my pen and notebook.
It’s not New York. But maybe time away is exactly what I need. Maybe my boy needs some space. And maybe I’ll be okay.
In the meantime, I’ll keep hoping. For an interview, a response, a sign.