The Big Apple

I have been a late night, late morning girl. I used to live in Manhattan, where I thought about heading home at 11 pm and stumbled into work around 10 am. My studio was always warm; I walked around my room in silk slips even on the coldest days of winter.


I was happy sometimes and sad others. I triumphed in little writing successes—a restaurant review published online, a part-time freelance gig with a travel magazine, a positive critique from my writing group. I worried too. I wondered about my job security and where I was headed. Was the ocean still waiting to swallow me?