For the Creatives Stuck in the Middle of Nowhere
Sometimes it feels like everyone else lives in New York, doesn’t it?
Like every other writer I follow on Twitter has a studio in Brooklyn (how they afford it is a mystery to me). Or maybe they’re in Boston, or Philadelphia, or Baltimore. Oh, and I can’t forget everyone in DC on the political beat.
And here I am, in a small coastal town with a year-round population of about 1,000 people — most of which aren’t my age.
We have one real local paper. We have a couple local magazines, but some of them only go to print in the summer when the tourists come around.
Growing up, I never met a single person who made a living as a writer. There were no poetry open mics, no local workshops. Thankfully, I had some great English teachers. I think the closest workshop group that meets regularly is an hour’s drive away from me.
We used to have a couple bookstores when I was a kid. They all ended up closing once the Kindle got big. Now we have one that only opens in the summer — you know, for the tourists who need a beach read.
I remember when I was a kid, sometimes we would drive for an hour to get to a Barnes & Noble near my aunt’s house. It was an event. We would spend all day out there and go out to lunch.
