How I Spent The Nightmarys Release Day

Creating a book from idea to tangible product is a long, bizarre process.

Once the book is complete and is sent off to production by your editor, it is pretty much out of your hands. For The Nightmarys, this happened in fall of 2009. You have to just let it go... and then wait... and wait... and wait... And in the mean time, your editor sends you the preliminary cover art, and the final cover art, and eventually Advanced Copies of the book... Which is REALLY cool.

Then, if you're lucky, you start to hear from people who are interested in reading the book. Bloggers. Fans of other books you've written. Your best friends who want to pump up your ego... (thank you all!). This pretty much carries you along for the last few months as you continue to WAIT for the book to come out.

Last year, when The Stone Child was released, I was so overwhelmed, I didn't even know what to do with myself. There were so many ups and downs (mostly in my head) that by the release date, I felt like I was floating through life. David Levithan and I decided to share a book party at Books of Wonder (who were kind enough to host us). And it was a blast... But still, I was totally freaked out. It was surreal to finally see the book sitting on shelves around New York City.

This year, my prep for The Nightmarys release was more conceptual. I was connecting with people on line. I'd done a few events over the summer (a writing camp for kids, and a school visit) to help start getting the word out that the book was coming soon. I decided to wait for any sort of release date event - I've got some things in the works and will share as soon as they're finalized. So I decided to lay low.

I woke up, checked facebook, reminded everyone I know that the book is now available. Then I went to work and begged everyone there to go buy a copy! Ha. My friend Ethan met me for lunch to celebrate. We ate burritos and had a piece of cake. Then I met another friend in the evening for drinks and a trip to Barnes and Noble in Union Square. To my surprise, the store had quite a few copies prominently displayed! It was so fun to see it up there on the shelf. I grabbed all of them and asked the girl at the info counter if I could sign them. Before we left, I picked up a copy of Mockingjay (of course).

Down the street, I realized I forgot to take a picture in the store. So we ended up in the subway -- and he was kind enough to share the copy he bought for my modeling shot. We said goodnight and I came home.

It's weird... after such a long build-up and all the waiting... it's just another day. Which is nice in a way... Everything that comes next is unknown... and uncontrollable.

Anyway, I hope you're all able to find a copy of The Nightmarys. I'm really happy with the work we all did to make it happen. Let me know what you think!

All best (nightmarys),
Dan

Great Site for All Things Spooky

D. M. Cunningham is a writer and blogger, and his extraordinary taste is on display at his blog http://literaryasylum.blogspot.com/

He interviews writers and artists about all things monsters and genre fiction: two of my favorite subjects in the world. Plus he has these amazing photos of Halloweens past on his most recent post. Totally just put me in the mood for fall.

If you're looking for other books like mine, he's got lots of recommendations... so head on over there and follow him... He's also on twitter. Very cool! You won't be sorry!

OGSP - Story #7 October Ghost Story Project

"Boo!"

My older brother and I always enjoyed tormenting our little sister--in a loving way of course--if only because she made it so easy. My mom used to call Emily "Me-too" because anything my brother and I had or did, she wanted, to be part of the boys or something. She didn't want to be left out. And if she was, she got mad!

So how could I resist the opportunity, when I was in middle school, to try and scare her the same way my brother and I would scare each other. You know, by jumping out from around corners? (Sound familiar?)

One Saturday morning, I heard my sister moving around in the bathroom and turn on the shower. She'd left her bedroom door open, and I noticed her bed was unmade. Breaking all sorts of house rules, I crept into her room and hid under the covers, trying to make myself inconspicuous.

A few minutes later, I heard the shower turn off. I clenched all my muscles, giddy with the anticipation of making her scream when I leapt out and surprised her. (I know, I was cruel, don't judge me.) Seconds later, the bathroom door opened, and I heard footsteps in the hallway. My sister walked purposely toward me, and didn't stop until she was standing right next to the bed. I knew I'd been caught--especially when she leaned over and started breathing on my face. I could feel it through the sheet. In the back of my mind, I wondered how she'd known I was there so quickly. I figured I didn't have anything to lose by whipping the sheets away and screaming, "Boo!"

No one was there.

In fact, I could still hear my sister moving around in the bathroom. The door was still closed.

Chills raced across my skin. I jumped out of the bed, realizing that even though I hadn't been caught by Emily, I'd certainly been caught by something.

****Did I make this one up too? Leave your vote in the comments for another chance to win a signed copy of my book, The Stone Child... Results will be announced after the best day of the year--Halloween!****

OGSP - Story #6 October Ghost Story Project

"The Bullet Hole"

When I was in high school, my friend Grace had several puppy-sitting jobs. One of the families she whose dogs she cared for lived in the hills far west of our town. Sometimes, she asked me to tag along. I loved playing with the dogs, but there was also something compelling about visiting the homes of these people who were away. Empty houses feel entirely different from ones that are occupied--sad, lonely... all the obvious stuff. This one house was even stranger. Not only was it an oddly shaped, seven story modern with an indoor swimming pool, but it had once belonged to someone who'd supposedly been the victim of a mob shooting.

That's right--someone had been murdered in the puppy-sitting house. I wasn't sure if I believed Grace at first, but when I saw the bullet hole which, for some reason, was STILL in the window of the indoor pool room, I knew that something bad had happened there.

I was highly invested in all-things "ghost" at the time, so I was extremely curious to spend some time in the house, even if it was only to help Grace change the doggie food bowls and water. When I entered through the garage, I felt odd. Maybe it was the house's seclusion up in the hills. Maybe it was knowing the house's history. I almost expected to find a dead man lurking around every corner. All we found though were two grotesquely cute Lhasa Apsos who were very happy to see us.

Grace and I spent some time playing with the dogs. Then, as she cleaned up the kitchen, I wandered to the base of the stairs in the grand foyer. That was where I first heard the voices.

Moving closer to the stairs, I heard them more clearly, a soft whispering, which actually sounded like a radio or television had been left on somewhere upstairs. I couldn't make out any words, but the sound was clearly there. I asked my friend if the owners had left a stereo playing... she gave me a look, and I brought her to the base of the stairs. "Do you hear it?" I asked. She nodded.

Together, we ascended the steps, the dogs locked in the kitchen behind us. At the first landing, we encountered a large living room with a cathedral ceiling. But the stereo was off and we couldn't find a television. And yet, the whispering sound was still there if we listened closely. But only near the stairs. If we moved away, the sound stopped.

We climbed the next set flight, which wound up the center of the house in a clunky spiral. At each floor we looked for some electronic device which might have been left on, and at each floor, we found nothing.

Finally we came to the top, the master bedroom. On a nearby shelf was a television set! But the screen was dark and as I peeked at the cord, I found the tv unplugged.

Grace and I couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from, and at that point, we weren't sure we wanted an answer...

Especially as we came back to the base of the stairs and found all of the foyer lights turned on. Funny. We hadn't left them that way...

Grace and I quickly said goodbye to the poor pups and went outside. Driving away, I couldn't help but catch a glimpse of the bullet hole in the window behind us and wonder what secret someone might have been trying to whisper to us.

****Did I make this one up??? Really? How can you be so sure...? Leave your vote in the comments for another chance to win a signed copy of my book, The Stone Child... Results will be announced after the best day of the year--Halloween!****

OGSP - Story #5 October Ghost Story Project

"The Hounds of Blairsden"

When I was in high school, my friends and I would drive around the Bernardsville Mountains, trying to defeat our boredom. Though my corner of New Jersey was filled with more local legends per acre than anywhere else I've ever lived, those roads were particularly ripe with folklore. And at night, they were terrifying.

If you grew up in Basking Ridge, you must have heard about Jacob's Ladder, the old winding road through the hills with the seven pronounced bumps, under which it was told were buried seven bodies.

One of the stories I'll never forget has to do with an old estate which stood at the top of a steep hill, overlooking a large mirror-like pond. Blairsden. The mansion's name was carved into a stone wall at the estate's ruined gate, just above a terribly creepy relief of a goat's head. That's right... a freakin' goat's head greeted any trespassers who were nervy enough to cross the gated off bridge which led from the road across a small creek. Past the gate was an abandoned driveway which hugged an overgrown hillside and which, once upon a time, led up the hill to the stone house at the top. I was a curious teenager. I explored this driveway one afternoon with a friend of mine. The scariest thing that happened to us was when we got back in my car and realized we were crawling with ticks.

But Blairsden came with a much creepier history than a mere insect infestation.

The house's story went like this: Blairsden was built by rich young man for his new bride. But before they even had a chance to share their perfect love nest, the poor girl died. The young man was left inconsolable. He moved into the house by himself. Supposedly, he bought himself a number of hunting dogs for sport, and also to keep himself company.

The dogs, however were no comfort. The man fell into a deep depression. One night, he drowned each dog in the pond at the base of the hill, before taking his own life.

A sad story... but it doesn't end there. Legend says that if you look into the water in the dead of night, you can see the glowing red eyes of the dogs looking back at you.

My friends and I would often freak ourselves out by driving by the pond, but we never saw the red lights for ourselves. This didn't stop us from trying... or going even further.

Though Blairsden's old driveway was locked and crumbling, a newer driveway had been built on the other side of the hill. The mansion itself had been turned into a rest home for retired nuns... or so we believed... which somehow made the house even spookier. On several occasions, my friends and I would drive all the way up to the house at night. Thinking back on it now, it seems like quite a rude thing to do, bothering the nuns like that. But at the time, we cherished every thrill we could get.

Past a ten foot wall, the driveway circled a long thin reflecting pool. Along the wall were stone busts of important looking men. My friends and I would drive quickly past them, holding our breath, hoping the nuns wouldn't chase us off the property... or call the police.

The last time I drove up to Blairsden, I was by myself. I'd come home on a break from college, and one night, I decided to check out the place for old-time's sake--the best kind of sake when you're on a break from college. The leaves were off the trees and the hills were especially dark. I pulled into the mansion's long driveway and tried to make my way up to the top, but when I reached the wall, I found the entrance chained off. I figured that maybe one too many people had had the same idea as my friends and I over the years, and the nuns had had enough.

I had put the car into reverse and was trying to pull a k-turn, when looking over my shoulder, I saw someone walking in the road behind me. I nearly hit him. The red tail lights reflected off a man in a long coat. He didn't look at me. Just kept walking by. I pulled forward and up the road. Looking into the rearview mirror, I noticed that he was walking at least four large dogs. I swear one of them looked back at me, its eyes glowing red...

I drove as fast as I could away from there...

I tried to fall asleep at my mom's house, but all night long, I heard a dog barking in the woods outside. I haven't been back to Blairsden since.

**** What do you think??? Real story, or did I make it up? Leave your vote in the comments below... Keep coming back. The more you vote, the better your chance to win a signed copy of The Stone Child. Winner will be revealed after Halloween!*****

OGSP - Story #4 (October Ghost Story Project)

"The Lady in Red"

Believe it or not, I actually went to college for acting.

Syracuse University. Woo-hoo.

Our acting classes were held in a building down the hill from the main campus. This building housed the university theater (The Storch) as well as a professional regional theater called Syracuse Stage.

I first heard about the Lady in Red when I was working at the box office for Syracuse Stage. One of my co-workers told me that the theater was haunted by a woman, an actress, wearing a red dress. Supposedly, this woman didn't like being upstaged. She would grow jealous of anyone else who wore red on Syracuse Stage. There were countless stories of strange mishaps when one of the actors was costumed in red.

My co-worker told me her story: she'd been working late in the box office and was about to leave, when she found the door locked. From the outside. The problem was, the door didn't lock from the outside. She was alone in the theater and had to call her partner to help get her out. But when help arrived, the door wasn't locked anymore. Weird...

Okay... but here's what happened to me when I was in a show with someone who wore red.

It was my junior year, and I'd been cast in Syracuse Stage's production of Three Tall Women, by Edward Albee. I played the non-speaking role of The Boy. Basically, the three tall women were my mother... (surreal, I know). My role was to come onstage in the second act, sit by my dying mother, and weep. Very difficult to do night after night, with any authenticity. I'm pretty sure I used all my tears up during rehearsals.

One of the three tall women was made to wear a 1960's style red chiffon dress in the second act. Right from the start, this dress gave our actress problems. The first time she even tried it on, her shoe heel caught on the hem and tore a huge hole at the bottom. By the time the show was up and running, our actress couldn't get out of that dress fast enough, and began undressing in the hallway before she ever made it to her dressing room.

Anyway, I spent most of the show in my own dressing room, listening to the dialogue piped in through speakers. Opening night, a friend of mine gave me a single red rose in a small vase. I had placed the vase on the counter next to my dressing room mirror. As I sat listening to the play, untouched, the vase tipped toward me and spilled the rose's water all over the floor. Unnerved, I scrambled to wipe up the mess. I couldn't think of how the vase had tipped over by itself. I felt like it was the Lady in Red wishing me luck...

Like I said, it was difficult eventually to come up with tears on stage, but when I did, they flowed. After one performance when the boo-hooing was authentic, I rushed offstage after my scene and heard someone call my name from a storage room. Clear as day, a woman said, "Dan!"

Thinking it was one of my stage-hand friends, I looked all around that side of the stage for the person who called my name. But no one was around. No was had been near enough to say my name that loud, enough for me to believe they were within poking distance...

When I realized I was completely alone in the dark backstage, I hurried downstairs toward the light and the possibility of company.


****Real or made-up??? Vote in the comments for a chance to win a signed copy of the Stone Child...!****

OGSP - Story #3

"The Burns Street Disturbance"

A few years ago, my father and step-mother bought a row house in Forest Hills Gardens in Queens, NY. It's a beautiful neighborhood with lots of history -- actually designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr. Lots of tudor-style houses and buildings... nearly a century old.

The house my parents bought is four stories tall -- a living room, dining room and kitchen on the first floor, two bedrooms and a bath on the second, two more beds and another bath on the third, and below it all, a large basement. Before they moved in, they did many renovations. During construction, I went to see the place for the first time. As I made my way to the top floor, I felt strange, that we weren't alone up there. It was the way I used to feel in our house in New Jersey-the haunted one- like someone was watching me. I said nothing to my father. I didn't want to frighten him in his new house.

Yet, as I stood there, my father exclaimed, "The neighbors' kids say this place is haunted."

I got chills. I nodded. "I can feel it."

"This room in particular," my father continued, pointing at one of the top-floor bedrooms. He smiled, amused.

"Guess we'll see what happens," I finished.

A few months later, my father called me. "You'll never believe what happened," he said. "Or actually, maybe you will..."

This is his story.

One night, my father was in the attic of his new house, working on the air vents. The light had grown dim, and he had no flashlight to see by. He managed to crawl toward the hatch which led to the ladder. He climbed down the ladder, which brought him to the closet in the front bedroom on the top floor. The electricity had been turned off on this floor, and the only light to see by shone from the stairwell.

My father passed through the room, went through the door, out into the hallway and had started down the stairs to work on a separate project, when he realized that his measuring tape was not on his tool belt. Thinking that he'd left it up in the attic, he crossed back through the bedroom, entered the closet, and climbed the ladder into the darkness again. But as he floundered blindly in the attic for the tape, he quickly realized that he wouldn't have been able to find his own nose if it hadn't been attached to his face. So he gave up the search.

He climbed back down the ladder and was about to cross through the bedroom for the third time in less than five minutes when he realized something was now blocking his path. An object that had not been there moments earlier... Stretched out across the floor, in front of the bedroom door, was the measuring tape.

Surprised, my father picked up the tape, attached it to his belt and called out for the house to hear, "Thank you!"

If it had been me, I'm pretty sure I would have shouted something else...


****Real story or made up??? Leave your vote in the comments... Keep coming back every day to vote. Whoever leaves the most correct responses will win a signed copy of The Stone Child!****

OGSP - Story #2

"Hell Shower"

During my junior year at Syracuse University, my roommates and I lived on the first floor of a triple decker apartment building off-campus. There were four bedrooms, but only three of us.

Of course, I believed it was haunted.

For example... we had a large plant which sat in the corner of our living room. One night, I watched as all the leaves and branches began to shake, as if someone were brushing a hand through them. But no one was near the plant. I wondered if I was seeing things until my roommate's two cats rushed over to the corner and stared at the plant with me. The rustling stopped, but I was still freaked out. I'm pretty sure the cats were too.

Another time, out of the corner of my eye, in this same corner of the living room, I saw a large shadowy figure standing there watching me. When I looked directly at it, it disappeared, but when I turned away, I could still see it standing there in my peripheral vision.

The weirdest room in the apartment was the bathroom, which was in the long hallway near the front door. One night, I came home with a friend to find we had the apartment to ourselves. Or so we thought, because as we came into the living room, we heard someone moving around. The lights were off in the apartment. I dragged my friend back to the front hallway. "Hello?" I called out, as I turned on the hall light. The sounds from the bathroom stopped. But the door was closed, so we couldn't see inside.

Of course.

We were freaking out as we slowly pushed the door open. I quickly flicked the light switch on, only to find the shower curtain drawn shut.

Of course.

"Hello?" I said again weakly, as my friend groaned in fear. But we received no answer. After a few seconds, I decided to suck it up and be a big boy. I reached out and pulled the curtain back. The shower was empty. However, one of my roommate's disposable shavers lay conspicuously in the middle of the tub.

My friend and I sighed in relief, and quickly forgot about it.

But soon, I was forced to remember. One morning before class, shortly after this incident, I was taking a shower. The way the bathtub was set up, there were shelves built into the faucet side of the shower as well as the opposite wall. These shelves were where we kept our shampoo and shower gels and whatever else we thought we needed in order to stay clean. On this particular morning, I was rinsing my hair when every single bottle sitting on these two shelves flew from their perches and struck me. Literally, the bottles flew several feet through the air to hit my body, hard. I cried out in shock and pain. Then I slowly put them back where they belonged.

This continued to happen again and again, until I finally started shouting at whatever it was to knock it off. And it started to happen to my other roommates as well. The bottles would fly from the shower shelves all at once, but only when we were in there. I might have dismissed the incidences as caused by gravity and a slanty old building, but with the other stuff we'd seen and heard in the house, we believed that a spirit who lived with us had something against us bathing... As ridiculous as that sounds...

****What do you believe??? Real story? Or fake? Leave your vote in the comments below... oh, and spread the word about the contest... Most correct guesses wins a signed copy of The Stone Child!****

Homestretch

Hi there-

Officially one week left until The Stone Child is available. I'm so excited...

especially after spending an extra-special four day weekend in Alta, Utah, at my agent, Barry Goldblatt's client retreat. About twenty of us holed up in an off-season ski lodge high in the (HUGE) mountains, chatting about the writing business, craft, time-management, inspiration, and lots of other really useful stuff. Holly Black made lots of flow-charts. Karen Healey took lots of notes. Shannon and Dean Hale did some interpretive dance. Cassandra Clare wrote the ending of her next novel. Mette Harrison took part in an iron-man competition (for real!). And everybody else was super kind and dandy.

I've never done anything like this before, and I left Alta feeling so lucky to have been part of the experience. I was especially star-struck, as some of my favorite authors in the world were sitting right next to me. But what surprised me most was learning that these VERY successful writers feel the same sorts of anxiety that us newbies do.

Lots of wine was poured, lots candy was shared, lots of push up competitions took place. Lots of gossip was given. Lots of hummingbirds were spotted. Lots of laughs were shared... And I'm certain we all left Utah feeling sad that it went by so quickly.

We're all looking forward to next year... wherever that may be.

Way Too Long

I'm taking a break from the failed title of the day feature, if only because I haven't posted a note in several months... Whoa, it's been like three and half months since I've even looked at this thing. And man have things changed.

Since my last update, I've snagged a wonderful agent, wrote a tentative proposal for a new series, started two more manuscripts (one of which I'm currently working on), and spoken to a group of teens at the New York Public Library for the first time ever. I've gotten feedback from actual strangers who've read advanced copies of my book. Things are finally starting to continue to happen! I cannot wait for August when my book is actually on shelves.

Right now, I'm up in Webster, MA, visiting my mom and step-dad at their lake house. I really needed to take a break from NYC. I'm trying to work on this next manuscript, but mostly I've found myself just thinking thinking thinking... I've realized how much time I spend in my head, and I'm not sure if it's so healthy. At the same time, I've come to the conclusion that, for me, the act of writing, of exploring the world of a story is like twisting the release valve on a pressure cooker. I need to write in order to stay sane and if I can't, I start to go a little nuts...

I wonder if other people feel this sort of thing, and not necessarily with writing? For awhile there, I was going to the gym three or four times a week. At that time, I needed to exercise the same way I needed to write. Not sure why I stopped. Does anyone feel compelled toward a hobby or activity which you feel keeps you sane?

I don't know what it is about stories that gets me out of my head, makes me feel safe. Telling them or listening to them, watching them in a dark theater, or reading them while tucked into bed... Mmm. The best...

Okay, so this is a bit of a ramble. I'm going to get back to work now before I break...

Cheers!

HARD

Hey there. Failed title of the day = HARD. Try to to write that story. You'll fail.

Probably.

That title actually isn't so bad... and I must admit, it's a last minute replacement for the failed title I'd been thinking of for the past few days. For some reason, this morning, my original idea flew out the brain and left the country. But HARD is good enough. It's a little racy, a little gritty, and waaaay dumb. I don't know what the story would be... but it sounds like a sexy cop novel. Or something.

So here I am a little farther from the raft. The writing is getting HARDer. Last week really tripped me up for some reason. Maybe it was the holiday and all the obligations which come along with that...

But I really think my biggest stumble came after I read an article in the New York Times about the publishing industry and how everyone is freaking out about future sales and acquisitions and how many folks are leaving their jobs or getting fired... And blah blah blah, economy woes, blah, blah, blah. Ugh. Some advice for struggling artists out there: nix the articles in bourgeois publications about how the market for your work sucks and you're doomed. DOOMED. Said articles are not helpful for 'creativity.' (Mmm, the balm of cynicism feels so good.) I've spent the past week with my mind a whirling, wondering if I've made a mistake, and cursing the banks for f-ing up the world just when I finally have the balls to try to make a change in my life...

I'm about to start on today's pages... My characters are finally learning the TRUTH about their situation. I'm about to set up their race to the finish line. (On your marks... BLAM!) Over the weekend, I plotted out the end of the book -- and realized (once again) that what I thought was going to be a tight, quick, economical little story has metastasized into a full-fledged epic. It's possible that my trip-up (and creative psych-out) was caused by realizing the book won't be complete within the next 50 pages, as I'd planned. I'm learning that I just need to let that go. I've got to become an organic farmer and tend my crop without the pesticide called Negativity (Blecch, sorry... that was awful. And so, there's another failed title for ya: A Pesticide Called Negativity. Try to write that story. You'll fail!)

Seriously, I'm thinking of taking my laptop and sitting underneath the dining room table (or in my closet, or on top of the washing machine) just to get a different perspective. I wonder if that might help...?

At the very least, this week, I'm staying away from the New York Times.

Cheers!

The First Day

Hi,

So, I left the office last Friday with a large bag filled with stuff. Pens, folders, paper-clips, post-it notes... all stuff I probably should have left there, but I really don't think they'll miss it. I did leave the electric stapler and a few Halloween gourds, so I'd say it was an even trade.

It really didn't hit me until this morning that I quit. This past weekend was so action packed, I didn't have time to think.

So far, I slept in later than I thought I would or should. I sent an email to my editor, letting him know my new situation and asking for an update on the manuscript I turned in two months ago. And now, I'm wasting time writing this little entry before I actually get down to the writing.

I haven't looked at the new book for several weeks -- and I'm hoping I'll be able to dive right back in. I hope having much much more time to do so doesn't make it more difficult.

We'll see what happens. I have tons of social invitations this week -- all of a sudden I'm so popular! Also, there are tons of movies I want to check out. But why do they keep raising the price of tickets? Last theater I went to charged 12.50. I guess that's going to be one of my luxuries I'm going to have to cut back on... Netflix will have to do.

Anyway, I'd better get started before the day gets away from me.

For Better or Worse, A New Yorker

This past week, while walking down New York City streets, I've noticed a trend. On at least four occasions, strangers have stopped me and asked me for directions. In each disparate location, I had the right answer for them.

One time, one man stopped me and asked me the way to Columbus Circle. I told him we were standing in it. Seconds later, another man asked me where 59th street was -- I pointed directly behind us.

Instead of my default reaction of, "Why the hell are you talking to me?" which has evolved swiftly over the past several years, being able to answer these questions for these people has made me envision my place here in the micro-cosmos of this city. I am no longer looking at it as an outsider. I am part of the machine.

When I first moved here, almost 10 years ago, my father had already been living in Manhattan for 6 years. Ultimately, I've had a type of home in this city for nearly half my life. Yet, in those early days, I couldn't escape the constant comment, "You're not from around here, are you?"

I would say, actually, "I sort of am." Even if it wasn't in NYC that I originated, like Walt Whitman, or Teddy Roosevelt, I'd still only come from New Jersey, which in the grand map of the world, is not THAT far from New York.

I learned that when these people insisted I wasn't "from around here," they didn't mean, from across a river. They meant Denmark, or Austria, or some small country in Eastern Europe. I don't know what it was in my demeanor that made me appear so to be so green. I've always sort of had a youngish looking face, but there are plenty of young people who've grown up in New York. And I could sort of say the same thing for myself...

Was it an innocence? A naivete? A profound appearance of one who is lost in the woods? I cannot claim that I possessed none of those things. Somehow, I was proud that the city hadn't claimed me...

I haven't decided whether or not this new-found appearance of me as someone-who-belongs is a good thing or not. Because appearances are deceiving. I could always leave. Anyone could, and many people do.

And if I look like I'm one to ask how to navigate these streets, does that give me some sort of authority here? That is something I thought I never wanted. Not here. New York is wonderful, but anyone who knows me, knows that it has kicked my ass from the Bronx to Brooklyn and back.

I wonder if all this is related to the new direction I'm taking -- leaving the workaday world to work on what I care about? Exploring this city on my own terms, to find inspiration for my writing. Maybe making a choice like that is what gives me authority -- not in the city particularly, but in my life. Maybe that's what people are seeing in my no-longer-so-young-ish face, and maybe that's why they finally feel like I'm someone who knows the way...