It is, but it isn’t. Oddly enough after two weeks in temperatures ranging from -21 to 7 degrees Fahrenheit, I think I’m finally used to it.
My early morning walk after leaving the hotel is both for exercise and exploring.
Looking for locations, observing people, watching and learning what it’s like to live, work, and hang out in a city like New York.
It’s so much more interesting than where I come from. There it would be impossible to spin a story in such a small city. You need to be able to hide in plain sight among millions of people over a very large area that encompasses Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and everything else in-between and beyond.
I was looking at going to a Walmart in Secaucus, about three and a half miles from my hotel in Manhattan. Three and a half miles. In my city that’s way beyond the limits of the city and in the outer suburbs.
Here I can spin a tale that could live within the confines of 35th street, 85th street, 2nd Avenue and 10th Avenue, and have so much material, I could probably write a trilogy.
Pity is, I won’t be here long enough to gather enough background.
Still, it’s like being in literary seventh heaven.
I’ve written one book based in New York, I’m sure another is currently writing itself in my head and will be on paper over the next year.
Then, maybe I’ll be back.