By the time
I get to the bus stop, hoping it would get me to the train faster than the
twelve minute walk my legs and shoulders would have to endure, I was soaked in
sweat. Thanks due to the relentless beams of the sun hovering directly above my head. I
always regret waiting for this stupid bus. Of the few times that I've caught
it, I'm usually on the brink of bursting with frustration because I could have
walked to the train faster. I admit it's my own fault this time. I didn't make
the decision to just keep walking, until it was borderline too late and made
the wrong choice. Today, I was on the point of tears with anger. I was already
on the verge of being late for a lecture with writer, Emily Griffin, at the
Bryant Park Reading Room, but this darn bus was making it official. I've been
looking forward to hearing Emily talk about her experiences as a writer for a
week now, but at this rate I nearly walked myself back home and called it quits.
However, I stuck it out another five minutes because I knew, even if I showed
up late, it would be better than the regret of not going at all. Finally, the
dang thing decided to show up and I surely jumped on, without a smile at the
bus driver this time. I'm angry with you
buddy. Drive.
Ultimately,
I got on the train but that too felt like going extra slow today. Once it
decided to spit me out in front of Bryant Park, I heard Emily's booming voice over
the loudspeakers before I could see her. Surrounded by hoards of aspiring
writers and tourists who could barely speak English, sat Emily in all her
flowing blonde hair in the center. It looked like she had just walked out of
the back cover of one of her books. I was about fifteen minutes late but I
managed to slide right into the only chair available. Then I realized why. It
was sitting in the only spot that wasn't shaded by the massive trees overhead. I nearly yelped in the middle of rather engrossing discourse between Emily and a fellow writer, when my bare legs met the blistering heat of
the metal chair beneath me. Muffling the cries of my intense pain, I managed to
position myself so that only about two inches of my covered bottom rested on
the edge of the chair then, relaxed enough to listen to the easy flow of Emily's
dialogue. Apparently, I could have just watched the entire lecture in my pajamas over
the Internet at home, because I noticed that there were several cameras
recording the entire session. However, there's something very reassuring about
seeing a writer in person. It's almost as if they don't really exist until you
see them moving or interacting with other humans. And even television doesn't
seem to give the full effect that face-to-face communication can bestow.
Especially when you know how editing works. Typically, writers are considered to
be introverted people, who shy away from the world and hole themselves up for
hours at a time or days on end; prone to feel that they can only truly
communicate, comfortably, through the mode of their literature. I consider
agoraphobic Emily Dickenson as an example. I imagine sometimes that what they
really look like is a version of the hunchback Quasimodo, or something toady
with large warts protruding from their long greasy noses, ashamed to be seen among society; Especially, if they don't don the back cover of their books with a
picture. What are you hiding you
brilliant writing machine you? Emily Griffin does not seem like that at all,
with her unnaturally good looks and the ever-flowing eloquence of her
conversation. I cringe at the thought of ever having to do what she's doing
right now, publically promoting the recent release of her newest novel, Where We Belong, in front of all of
these people. Her words of admission are a comfort, however, and what I can tell from the
faces of these other would be writers, they feel likewise. It can be a struggle to turn out
something that not only satisfies your creative needs, but also, be able to tell
a coherent story that people will want to read. I'm a fan of Emily's writing
style. It's fun fiction that doesn't go over the top and nestles itself nicely
in the form of reality. Forty years old and she is the successful writer of
five best sellers, one that became a hit movie called Something Borrowed, and still looks like she's not a day over
thirty. Good for her I say, so sad for me, I feel. I'm thirty-two years old and
writing a blog--for free. I am grateful to at least have this avenue for
self-expression. It does get me up in the morning some days, so my thanks to
you blogger world. Maybe one day this too could become a book, or even a movie.
We'll see.
At the end
of the lecture, a line forms in front of Emily that quickly swirls in and out
of the rows of chairs halfway down the north side of the park. I have one of
her books with me but I just watch everyone else file up for her signature. I
always found it awkward to ask for an autograph or try to have a conversation
with someone you know more about than you should but have never met personally.
What do you say/ask them that they haven't already heard or you don't already
know? So I sit there for a little while, taking in the park and the people
around me.
Historically,
the Bryant Park Reading Room began back in the mid 1930's, during the Great
Depression. With nothing to do and nowhere to go, due to the lack of jobs in
New York City in that time, the Public Library opened the "open air"
library where businessmen and intellectuals could go where they didn't have to
spend money, require identification or a valid address to borrow literature.
Nearly a decade later, shortly after America joined WWII, the reading room was
closed due to the job market increase. In the early 90's a non-profit
corporation was formed to restore the park and the reading room was reopened in
the same style in which it began nearly half a century ago.
The park
itself is a great place to retreat to when you need a little nature and you're
stuck between the concrete and steel of midtown. It's not nearly as big as
Central Park, by any means, but it is a good stretch of green lawn surrounded
by tall trees shading dozens of cafe tables and chairs. The free Wi-Fi attracts
the computer savvy and starved writers who need time away from roommates or
can't afford the service themselves. Not to mention some intense Ping-Ponging
tournaments that take place during the warm weather months. I can sit there and
watch these competitions all day. If you thought Forest Gump was good, get a
load of some of the guys that play there. It almost looks as if the tiny ball,
bouncing rhythmically from their paddles and off the table, is actually
attached by a clear rubber band between them, having no choice but to find it's
way back to the contestants. During the early afternoon, tourists find rest
from the heat under the shade of the trees, dodging falling pigeon poop from cascading on
their sweaty heads while corporate tycoons take their lunch breaks away from
the confines of their offices. I'm about to go to work in a few minutes so I
stay in the park as long as I can before I have to head out, stuffing my face with
a makeshift sandwich I had just enough time to put together before I ran out of
the apartment this morning. I'm at one with the world again. My qualm with New
York transportation has subsided and balance has been restored. I wonder if this is how Louis
Armstrong felt when he wrote his hit song, "What a Wonderful World."
In this moment, it kind of is.
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