Writing in NYC

Posing, just a little

How many aspiring novelists live in NYC?

I was in NYC this week on vacation with the family. The last time I’d spent any length of time in the city was two decades ago, a few years after 9/11 and well before I started drafting The Regression Strain.

Uber and electric bikes are everywhere now.

We spent a morning in lower Manhattan, where I got to see the Charging Bull, a 7,100 pound bronze sculpture that has become a prominent symbol of Wall Street and the Financial District.

I’m no financial guy, but I wanted to visit the bull because it appears in the novel wherein it’s described as “about the size of a UPS truck.” In that regard, I wasn’t too far off.

Me playacting as my protagonist…IYKYK

But the ribs surprised me. I hadn’t noticed the ribs in my online research about the statue, either because I wasn’t paying attention or none of the pics featured the left side of the beast. Or maybe the bull has been on Ozempic?

I wrote my novel in the suburbs of Houston, in my home office, before and after commuting to the Texas Medical Center. This week, I spent time imagining myself as an aspiring novelist in NYC. I have no working knowledge of that existence, so my ideas must have emerged from accumulated exposure to books, movies, and other online content about that life.

It would go like this: Me bouncing from job to job to pay rent. Living in the city, writing about the city, unable to escape the notion that it was the most important place on earth. Workshopping my draft with other writers in a low-ceilinged basement. Desperate for a chance to be noticed in the shadows of the big publishing houses. Daydreaming about seeing the cover of my novel on big spaces, on busy streets. Only then would I get to clink glasses with literati at dinner parties.

That’s not me at all. I recognize that my fantasy / nightmare about the starving artist trope is probably steeped in stereotype and very outdated. (I’d love to hear from anybody who’s actually lived it! Much respect.)

Yet even then, I had to take it one step further. So here’s me faking it as a NY writer in the hotel room.

I actually did get some words down for my next novel and short story

Now back to reality, which comes with its own set of joys and challenges, which I fully embrace. I’m satisfied with my writing life—not as a finished product but as a process of growth.

—Kevin