Three days in New York. Two museums, a bunch of galleries in Chelsea, one play in Spanish Harlem, one dance performance in the Village, one movie-- 49 UP, three dinners-one Spanish, one Korean, one Cuban. Lots of walking. And free digs which made it affordable. What's not to love?
Still I come home to the same set of problems. My mother's fragile and demanding and all-consuming health problems, do I continue to rewrite the novel or write the stories I love?
I mean on the plane ride home the guy next to me gives me a great story to write about how he (a pig, by the way, who told me he only liked sports where the potential for physical violence is high) is prosecuting his mother's caregiver and her boyfriend, both here illegally, for stealing her jewerly and heirlooms. I'm sure he paid her next to nothing. Or at least in my story that would happen. In my story.....
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1 comment:
We want more stories. Don't write a novel if you don't want to.
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