i'm a writer

On Thursday, when the rest of the city was consumed with the forthcoming World Cup match between USA and Germany I found myself on the Upper East Side, between 90^th and 91^st streets at DTUT, another coffee shop (where else do I go), trying to write. I hadn’t even realized there was an important match coming up until the barista approached me and said they were turning off the Wi-Fi so everyone could watch the game. 

“But I don’t even see a TV in here, ” I argued.

“Oh, well we’re projecting it on the wall over there”, and she pointed to a very large empty white space on the wall behind me. “The projectors right there.” My roommates watch Netflix the same way; I didn’t know projecting was a thing, apparently it is in New York City. Fortunately though, the barista was kind and gave me the password for their other network. So I popped in my headphones, continued editing my photos and attempted to focus. I’ve been surprised by how much time I’ve taken out of my days to blog. I used to spend so much time thinking about writing instead of actually doing it. Some days I feel like I’m keeping a daily journal of my feelings, others I’m detailing the events and tours of my adventures. If I’m not walking the streets, finding my next bagel, or seeing a free event or gallery, I’ve been writing and I can honestly say I’ve never felt better.

Almost everyone I have met since coming here, including my roommates, friends of friends, even strangers, is focused on something creative, or at least something personally fulfilling. Take for instance my two roommates. One is a very private, passionate musician, focusing on producing and performing from what I can hear through the thin walls of our apartment, catchy, ambient R&B. I notice him staring at his computer day and night so intensely, rocking back and forth in his chair, moving with the music, feeling each beat. You can’t help but envy his focus.

My other roommate, the one who hasn’t sat in almost 20 days, is hell bent on going viral. It’s deeper than just gaining YouTube views though. He's excited and passionate about it, and wants to share something he's doing with the world. His project is called nomoresad and as a friend described it, “It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen or heard of in a while.” What he does is send individual, personalized videos to anyone who requests them of him dancing, in the hopes of promoting the idea of not being sad anymore, spreading positivity by any means, cheering people up when they're down. They mainly consist of him wildly jumping around, shaking his limbs, or slow dancing with his dog; the videos are hilarious while also being oddly touching. He’s doing this for recognition, sure, but also it’s about doing something for a stranger, someone who is going through a hard time, and making them feel better, if only for a short period of time. You can see for yourself at nomoresad.tv, it’s definitely worth checking out.

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My friend who works in SoHo performed at the Chipped Cup, a hole in the wall coffee shop in the basement of a tenement in Harlem. It was her first set in front of a live audience. She covered ballads and classics from such varied acts as the Eagles, Dixie Chicks, Fleetwood Mac and Beyoncé. Unprepared, scattered, talking back and forth with the audience of mainly her friends, laughing between songs, she let her voice make the statement, rather than the organization of her set. And her voice is outstanding, broad and smooth, complimenting her guitar skills beautifully. Halfway through, the barista gave her a tip jar (more like a bucket), and since most of us in the audience were poor, everyone decided to put little pieces of paper with words of encouragement, or ideas of places she could perform next instead of the few dollars we had. I shouted out after Travelin' Soldier by the Dixie Chicks, “Next up, Madison Square Garden!”

Afterwards, I joined her and all her actor friends at the Harlem Public next door, a restaurant and bar that gave overflowing bowls of free buttery popcorn as appetizers. My bourbon had one large round floating ice ball inside. It was dingy in a clean way and you sat very close to the patrons next to you, stool next to stool. The sounds of the crowd and music bounced off the renovated brick walls. Once the conversation started flowing as freely as the booze I thought to myself that ever since arriving in New York I have struggled with explaining what I do, who I am, and why exactly I’m here when people ask me.

I interviewed my new acquaintances as any good writer would, and asked what they did for work, which neighborhoods they lived in. They’re all in acting school, pursuing careers in show business. Most of Manhattan is pursuing something with regards to the arts or humanities. One works at a pharmacy in Brooklyn to support himself, another a software company in Midtown. They ask me what I do and I quickly divert the question and ask them how they ended up in New York. One young guy, from Puerto Rico, left a lucrative and successful career in Chemistry to fulfill his dreams. Another, a beauty from Portugal, has been in New York 10 years, studying, struggling, living. I listened as they explained what brought them to New York and what has kept them here, how they knew no one, and had to start from scratch. I think about my situation, and what there is for me in San Diego; a job, actually a few, too many friends to count, my family, my comfort. I think about how easy it would be to tell these people all of that, what I have now instead of what I have to look forward to. So I made a decision and after they asked me once again what I do, two bourbons in my system, feeling loose and surprisingly at ease, I smile, look up and say, “I’m a writer.”