I don’t like waiting. I don’t like waiting and I’m not very good at it. I don’t have a lot of – what’s it called again? – patience, that’s it. I don’t have a lot of patience. People are sometimes surprised to hear that. Some people have even remarked on my patience, praised me for
Like most of you, my life is a jigsaw of different roles and activities that sometimes fit neatly together, sometimes not. Depending on the day, even on the time of day, I can be a novelist, a marketing consultant, a yogi, a fundraiser, a boss, a partner, a daughter, a friend. Of all these roles, one
The city has given way to the country. Gaudy shopfronts have become apartment buildings, bridges, hulking billboards and now, suddenly, there is only low morning sunlight, dazzling through skinny trees. As always, I am amazed at how quickly New York City can be left behind. I had that same thought last year, on my
I have been excited about this wedding for weeks. Ridiculously so. The night before, it is hard to find sleep. Lying in bed, I am wondering what they’re going to be wearing, if they’ll have written their own vows, if they’ll walk in together or if someone will give them away. The way I’m carrying
It’s a week since the storm. It’s a week since the storm and only now am I sitting down to write about it, to put words in a line, on a page and try and explain. In part this is because last week was busy, chaotic in a completely unstructured, routine-free way which doesn’t
Journalist Peachy Deegan reviewed ‘What Might Have Been Me’ earlier this year and because she and her panel really liked the novel she followed it up with an interview. We covered a lot of ground – everything from my writing process to ‘What Might Have Been Me’to my favourite Manhattan spots and soy chai lattes
I just found out that my blog has been nominated for a Fascination Award: 2012’s Most Fascinating Creative Writing Teacher blog. Seemingly someone nominated me and the comments posted in response to my posts prove my content inspires my audience and creates discussion! Reading that last sentence (a sentence every writer wants to read) I
I am walking up Broadway, dazzled by colour. A segment of green in a street vendor’s umbrella. Converse on a shelf behind glass– orange, pink. The sunlight cuts shapes out of shadow, on brick, on steel. After ninety minutes of having my eyes closed, each detail of the street is reflected back at me, as
The boxes take up nearly all the floor space. I count them quickly. ‘Twelve?’ ‘Thirteen,’ the delivery man says. I count again. He’s right. I sign. He leaves, grumbling one last time that the building needs an elevator. Each of the boxes says ‘Cassidy, New York’ in red marker, and something about that makes the
