The Sartorialist would be lucky as hell to catch me on a corner next week. Cuz I will be wearing a shit-ton of hope.

by Amy Turn Sharp


 

I am going to New York City next week to try and be a real writer. I mean, I am a real writer. I take words from my head and slap em down into reality. And we all move back and forth and life is like a movie. I have made at least twenty people cry. I have slayed one or two. I have made you angry and confused and nostalgic. That's the goddamn best I can do. Make you nostalgic for some feeling you may have forgotten that you used to know. It is like the best job. Better than an elf. Or fat Santa.

I am going to New York City with a dream in my pocket. Don't we all have pocket dreams? Sometimes they get linty or dirty. Sometimes they are so heavy that they weigh the pant down like when you are in England and there are just so many damn coins. Sometimes. Heavy. I like it when old men jingle jangle their pocket coins. Don't you?

When I am in New York City I will walk around whistling. I whistle. I wander. I am never lost. I will soak it in like sunshine. The streets and the dirt and the way the avenues pull me down like a bad girl. I will get down on my knees in some park where the light dapples in from the bitty tree leaf canopy above. I will get down on my knees and pray to the god of all artists that things will work out just fine and I will quote mediocre pop music and say things like 'maybe this year will be better than the last' and I will say it to the strangers beside of me. To the park benches. To the old men playing chess. And it won't matter because you can say anything in New York City. You can be bolder than in little Ohio towns where worry unravels women of a certain age.