The Writing Life

I'ts no secret that Paris is my favorite city in the world. I want to write a whole collection of stories set there. I love the glamour of it, and of course the romance of it. But I also want my stories to have a realness about them. I want to show what the city can be in many aspects, not just one of tourist dreams. I'm still not sure how to accomplish that. And a city like Paris is almost too broad, too full of endless scenes with an infinite number of characters. So one story might take place in a cafe, another in the Georges V, another in an apartment with a distant view of Sacre Coeur. Who knows where my heart will take me. What would be your favorite city for a story to be set in? Open the door...tell your best story with one of my workshops .

Sometimes ideas latch onto me and will not let go. One day, for no particular reason, my mind drifted back to a day (or perhaps a composite of days) when I walked straight through New York City's Central Park from the West Side to the East Side. That didn't happen often,  because I only had two friends who lived  on the East Side and once they were gone, only an occasional visit to the Met drew me over there. When I thought back to those occasions, I found myself wanting to write about the trees. There was one path closer to the West Side I think, where the trees formed a canopy over the walkway. I was struck by how protected I remembered feeling almost as if the trees were caring for me and mothering me. And I wanted to write about it. It wasn't a short story I wanted to write, but a poem. Now mind you, I have never (successfully) written a poem that was borne out of a direct attempt to write a poem. That is to say, any decent poems I've ever turned out simply ...