When it comes to writing or music or painting or dance or any other hellish vocation you are condemned to do, there is no end. The "going off into the sunset" of movies never happens. Except when you die. Then there's a sunset, but you're dead so you don't know the sun is going down on you. Beginning
can feel futile, especially if finishing feels like death and not
finishing feels like death that won't come. Either way, the terror of
sitting down to find out only makes those options worse. When I was still imprisoned in music studies, Florence would order "Répétez!" and demand "Commence!" When I escaped clef notes and bar lines into words and paragraphs, she'd say, "You know writing is really just rewriting", and "Sitting down is half the battle." She also said, "Show me a dirty house and I'll show you a woman of character." Thanks, Mom. But, I had to clean the house first.
MY PRIVATE CONEY presents IT WAS HER NEW YORK, the short stories that accompany the work-in-progress video and photo collection of the same name (myprivateconey.com - media link - IT WAS HER NEW YORK). The stories and the media explore the tender rubble that holds both my mother, Florence's and New York's soul as one disappears into old age and the other into gentrification. All are real observations and/or experiences with very little tall-tale telling.
Except when it makes the story better.
Please visit myprivateconey.com for additional information and sample works.