Years ago, I worked in New York. It’s sometimes hard to remember that that’s a truth of mine–which seems funny considering how LARGE New York is in my mind.
It’s been 4 years, almost exactly, since we picked up our life in New York/New Jersey and drove west. Which means it’s been about 7. 5 years since I first moved from Arizona to make my way in the big bad New York publishing industry.
I both loved and hated New York. I hated the weather. I hated that I only was happy with the outside about 2-3 months out of the year. I hated the drain. I hated the expense, and the small spaces. I hated the noise, and the dirt, and the wear. New York is a hard place, an exhausting place, that goes and goes and goes and goes. For someone who likes, very much, to NOT go all the time, it was hard.
New York is…New York. I mean, it sparkles and glitters and vibrates and hums. It is pure energy, contained in a speck of land on the eastern seaboard. New York is full of stories and imagery. New Yorkers are, by and large, some of the nicest people I’ve ever met. It’s NEW YORK.
It shocks me sometimes that I can practically forget the 3 years I lived there. That I can vividly think of growing up in New Mexico and Texas, going to college in Arizona, and then just skip right to San Diego. Other times, I can’t believe I ever left–it feels like just yesterday I was hiking through the city for job interviews, running out in a blizzard to throw snowballs with N.C., riding an elevator with a famous author, sitting in a cozy little bar listening to jazz. I want to remember all that stuff, in fact, I’m afraid of forgetting it sometimes with how I’ve washed the New York years out of my head. They were hard and took a toll on me, but they also helped shape the person I am today in a LOT of ways. I don’t want to forget that.