Three Thousand Miles

I told my dog that we’re moving today. From New York to California. He didn’t seem to mind. Someone told me that dogs remain young because they never worry. Too bad we humans can’t be as zen, but maybe it’s because we know the stakes when we may a decision. Now it’s been made, so in one week we’re leaving the cement canyons of Manhattan for the natural ones of the San Gabriel mountains. It’s pretty there and very quiet. Everyone tells me it’s a good place to write. But when I look outside my window here in Greenwich Village, I have a hard time imagining that a better place exists.

Sure, I know that great novels have been written from all corners of the world. And not every author lives in New York. Yet, it’s all I’ve known since I started writing. What if I can’t do it anywhere else? When I was living in Boston, I was only able to write a thesis, after all, never a novel. Working in Manhattan inspired me to write my first book. What if I find Southern California completely uninspiring? Sure, there are tons of wonderful authors out there. But perhaps my muse doesn’t operate on the West Coast. Maybe it will stay behind.

That’s the gamble one takes whenever making a major decision. Is it better to stay or go? In the end, I know that you can write from anywhere. My friends say I came up with some pretty good stuff when I was living in my hometown of Patchogue, New York. And most people wouldn’t confuse Patchogue for Paris. But then, I had the advantage of youthful angst. Do I now have the advantage of learned wisdom?

I don’t know what kind of writer I will be from my house in California. What if I’m suddenly possessed to write romance over mystery? I haven’t lived in a so-called “single family” residence in almost twenty years, nor have I lived outside a city, be it Boston, London, or New York. Will I miss hearing other people’s footsteps above me? Their voices in the hallway? The blaring of horns, along with the “Hey, get outta of the f*** way!” outside my window? I don’t even know if people curse in the mountains - there are no cab drivers to yell at. So, is the city responsible for my inspiration? Yes, I know it is. I’m not the first writer to feel that way and I won’t be the last. Others will come and find their muse. I just hope mine will travel three thousand miles.