If money were no object, I really wish I could live, for at least a year, in New York City. I want to be a starving artist, although not in the literal sense. In the manner, that 24/7 I could concentrate on writing, i. e., finish my novel that I have been so desperate to develop, and write poetry that would rival Yeats, Hughes and Shakespeare. The characters in my latest play would be so robust, complex and absorbing that I would be nominated for the next Pulitzer Prize.
A movie deal would be developed. Spielberg would direct, of course. Next thing you know, I would be thanking the academy at the Kodak Theatre. I’d secure a post at the New York Times – the one that Ben Stein lost a few weeks ago. Everyday, I’d sleep till ten, go for a jog in Central Park, go back home to eat a late breakfast, and finally, begin my latest masterpiece. Maybe my agent would call to tell me that Time magazine wants to interview me. I’d say, “Well, I don’t know. This week’s a bad week. You know I have my niece’s graduation.” Family would still be first on my list, you see. After some haggling, we’d come to a compromise. Decisions, decisions, decisions.
To get inside the actor’s head, I would try out roles in some off Broadway play. It’s true what they say, you know, experience is the best teacher. Every now and then, when my writing goes cold, I’d enroll in a creative writing class at NYU to jumpstart my cerebrum. I wouldn’t need to do this often because most times, the only jumpstart I would need is to walk down a busy street in New York. I’d watch the faces of strangers. I’d see and feel their struggle, humanity, and spirit. Even the buildings, although made of stone and concrete, would hover over me and make me feel like the invincible bard.
Oh, I hear you giggling out there. And I know you’re not laughing at me, but with me. ‘Cause, as writers go, you have the same wish list, too. : )
