The City of Dreams Anonymous

I’ve been to New York once in my entire lifetime. I was six years old and my father had to travel there on a business meeting, taking the rest of us along. I’m not particularly skilled in recalling events from numerous years ago, so when I reflect on that trip, what I can remember most is this: there’s something about New York that lifts the spirits; that leaves the instant impression that anything in this day and age is possible. The way I see it, the city of New York accurately encompasses what it means to be young: hopeful and energetic and perfectly willing to believe in the magic of unimpeded optimism.

I have known that I was going to be a writer since I was first capable of forming coherent thoughts. I used to imagine stories for the ducks on my wallpaper while lying in my crib. I have also been told, since I was old enough to voice my desires, that I should not pursue a writing career, as I would not be able to find a substantial occupation for my craft. No, I should be a doctor or a lawyer or a therapist – professions that will always be in high demand in this modern world and will pay considerably more than writing.

As a hopeful writer, the idea of New York means so much more than dancing lights and Broadway shows...