As many of you know, I live in New York two weeks out of the year (I'm actually just visiting Toronto right now) and I'm really inspired by her (New York). So, last fall I set out to write a truly authentic New York novel, because I don't think anyone has really portrayed what it's really like to be there, and I felt that I needed to share that. It's called 'The Real New York, A Love Letter' and this excerpt is also being published in The New Yorker. Enjoy
Manhattan was a great bustling metropolis, the streets were alive in the lower east side that day. The rats skittered into the sewers which probably led to an L train. The air was thick as it drifted down from the Bowery, where the punks and skids were riding on skateboards. Today I had to take a New York transit authority bus up to Columbus ave. Oh, how I dreaded the upper west side and their pretention. I thought to myself, I'd much rather be in SOHO, buying neat sunglasses and things, but I had to meet Jenny who was working for Donald Trump that summer.
Jenny was a true Brooklynite. I met her thrift shopping on Bedford (which is in Williamsburgh (which is in Brooklyn)) She told me all about how her dad used to take her to a New York Knicks game or for Chinese food, in the Chinatown area. She was one tough babe, she had even been to Harlem to catch some jazz music, and her legs were one tall drink of water. Petey was her brother he was always up for a good game of stickball over in Hell's Kitchen. I was eating a street hot dog...
-The Real New York, A Love Letter by Tom Henry
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4 comments:
This is the ultimate in NYC writing. You have painted a picture of her that is astoundingly accurate, amazingly like the city herself, so much so that I feel your blog is the city herself, the actual real city of New York is your blog. Wow, how do you do that? Please feature Central Park in your next excerpt or should I say NYCcerpt.
Man, I can tell you've waited in line over on 3rd for a schmeer on a bagel, lived in NOHO when it was still NOwhere, dragged your ass through the MOMA on a bad date, the real grit the New Yawk that the ^&$#! tourists just don't see. Your writing - uh, typing - man, is like a thousand clicking cockroaches, like the smell of the IRT Friday at midnight, like getting short-changed in Little Italy - it's like a real blast of steam up the ass, y'know? Now get oudda heah.
wondering when she would show up...
More!
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