Sadly, I was a little too chicken to take a photo, but this one is courtesy of Raptis Rare Books. The link is the image.
I had no business being there. I didn’t have the cash, nor the time, nor the eye to really have a good understanding of what I was actually doing there at the New York Antiquarian Book Fair, and I certainly didn’t have the moxy to go up to these bibliophiles and talk shop, though I desperately wanted to. The last book I read was on a Kindle for goodness sake, and I feel extremely guilty about that.
But there I was, at the Antiquarian Book Fair, passing stalls, walking around with a catalog and wallet as if I did belong there and as if I did have the money to make it rain on some illuminated manuscripts.
Photo courtesy of Amy Lynch’s website. Link available on photo.
Having just moved into New York, I’ve been scouring the city, quite frantically, for safe places to rest my weary backpack and laptop, if only to work on social media projects and optimistically fill out resumes, but mainly to write.
When I lived in Georgia I had the comfort of home. I had a backyard if I ever felt like I needed more space. I had a hammock if I felt fancy. I had a dog if I needed a hug to get me through a terrible writing block. But in New York, I have a small apartment in the middle of a building with opaque windows and middling wi-fi. I have a mattress that I absolutely refuse to spend the day in. I have an unlimited Metro card and a smart phone to guide me.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the apartment. It’s the sweetest thing and is kept tidy, but with my jazz saxophone neighbor and the tiny windows, spending a day inside can get cramped.
Maybe my Georgian roots just want fresh air.