Alright, I know American Thanksgiving is still a couple of weeks away. And of course, my people already had our day of turkey and root vegetables a month back. Still, I’d like to express my gratitude for the time I’ve spent in New York this week – and on all my previous visits, too.
I think I tend to be a fairly practical person, grounded in the here-and-now and not prone to seeing any kind of larger meaning in the happenings around me. But for a long time now I’ve imagined a sort of mystical connection between my writing career and my time in NYC. Whenever I come to visit, it seems, good things happen: I got an email offering me my first ever magazine assignment while I was working at the NYPL during a short visit in May 2008; I flew in on my last airline points for a Restless Legs reading in October 2008, and during the post-event schmoozing an editor offered me a monster writing contract that cleared away my credit card debt and got me out of my mother’s spare room (thanks, Mom!); on every trip here I’ve met writers in person whose work I’ve admired online and in print, and found invaluable inspiration in talking to them at bars, coffee shops, restaurants and the occasional swanky PR event.
New York even manages to clear room in my schedule for those solitary basics I often neglect at home: a rainy afternoon in a coffee shop or a quiet night on the couch, getting caught up on my magazine reading.
Of course, a lot of that good fortune I just described can be attributed to the generosity of the travel writing community here in New York, rather than serendipity. Still, it’s hard to shake the idea that the city is my good luck charm.