Why I’m Staying in New York Part II: Why I’m No Longer Staying In New York

The life of a writer, for all the adventurous yarns they weave, is essentially a quiet one.

If the writer wants time to write their great story of heroism and mayhem, then the very excitements that are being written about must give way to solitary contemplation. This conundrum can leave the writer without inspiration from everyday life regularly coming their way, wishing for an injection of something new into their life.

When the writer is out in the world, the creative creature in their brain must strain to take in everything that might become characters, scenes and ideas. In the writer’s darkest moments, which are not few and far between, perhaps they wish to witness a terrible traffic collision or overhear a violent and nuanced argument, just to feed the creative creature something juicy.

I often feel this way. Good stories are born out of many absurd or unique realities sewn convincingly together. The ideal situation, if I really want to make my writing convincing and well-researched, is to be thrown into some crazy scenario. As long as it isn’t dangerous and it is only temporary, my writing will surely benefit.

What a mix of dismay and delight I felt, then, on being told I will need heart surgery earlier this month.