There are times those 10,000 hours it takes to become even kinda good at my reason for being alive feels as futile as spitting into the wind. Futile as in why do I even get up to do it again this morning? Why do I send my work out over and over again?
Why do I keep leaping into unknowns, planting things that never seem to grow, showing up again and again and again?
I can keep keeping on, get the hell out of the wind and demand to be seen.
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.