I just got back from a relatively quick trip to New York City. When I was a kid, I harboured vague notions about moving there and starting a career in publishing and writing. I read books about kids growing up in NYC (Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, for a start), and fantasized about being one of the student interns at Sassy magazine too. Of course, I am a realist and knew the likelihood of a girl from rural northern Canada making a go of it in NYC was not great. I didn’t even try, when it came down to it. I took English and publishing in university, but knew I wasn’t brilliant or brave enough, so just started looking for a solid career. I am a victim of my own lowered, realistic expectations.
When I was there, I picked up Goodby to All That, a collection of stories edited by Sari Botton, with tales from women writers who left New York. Each of them seems to have some aspect of the city of dreams, but most conclude that NYC is a city for the young and hungry. I am not young and hungry anymore, but I think I am going to try writing again. Maybe I have things to say, or at least things to get out of my head.