Tag: #Upstate

  • Memories of Apple Picking

    When the wife and I were dating, we never went apple picking. Around here, it’s an easy “Cute Date” you can have. You know, rent a car, go upstate, dress in flannel and sweaters, take lots of pictures that involve hugging while holding apples. We used to make fun of people who did it.

    Then time passed, we had a kid, and my parents came to visit one year in the Autumn, and as we were trying to think of things to do with them, we went apple picking. And it was fun. Holding a plastic bag, pulling apples off a tree, walking around eating them, and talking. Talking with my Mom while she held her granddaughters’ hand.

    When my parents came to visit, none of us had any idea that we had limited time left. I mean, you never really know that. You never know that, that goodbye, might just be the last goodbye. My Mom wanted to come back in the Autumn again, to apple pick, to look at the foliage. It just didn’t work out that way.

    And so, when Fall rolled around, we headed out to the farm, to pick the apples, like all the other people from the City. This year, we brought the dog, which was a nice change up. We got out the plastic bags, I put on my flannel, and the wife wore a sweater. We picked apples, and tasted them, and talked. And I took pictures, so, you know, we can keep the memories alive.

  • Sounds of New York

    There is a guy singing in the construction site behind our building. At least, I think he’s singing. It’s more like a deep belly “Huh!” followed by several other “huh’s.” With the construction site being a hollow cement post and lintel structure, that has yet to be filled in with walls, or pipes, or anything, so it just behaves like a big echo chamber. Every sound, hammer pounding, yell, or really terrible idea of signing, is just amplified in the neighborhood.

    When we were staying up at our friend’s house for the weekend, we slept with the windows open. Now, the house was not in the country, though it was a small town, but in a small neighborhood subdivision. Yet, for an occasional car passing by, it was very quiet out there. Nothing happening, just the sound of still.

    Last night, back in New York, we slept with the windows open. I woke up around 4am, and as I lay in bed, trying to fall back to sleep, I listened to the City. It was a quiet night, no weird honking sounds, or sirens going by, but there is a hum to the City. It’s like a white noise hum. I couldn’t place my finger on it, but it was there, just a very low humming; like a machine running automatically.

  • A Home in the Country

    We are going to get out of the City for a long weekend, and I think it is long overdue. I could be wrong on this, but I don’t believe we have slept outside of our apartment since June 2020. A good friend of ours has a little house upstate. It’s in a small subdivision of a neighborhood, and has all the feelings and trappings of suburban bliss, from about 1970. The family friend is out of town, and has offered the house to us. We jumped on the opportunity.

    When we stay at this house, or when we Airbnb/VRBO a house that is in a neighborhood, I play this game in my mind of wondering what my life would be like in the suburbs? I have lived in New York City now for fifteen years, and I am thoroughly City-ized. And by that, I mean, I can live in a very tiny space, and have people on top of me all the time. Having lots of space is now very foreign. Could I function with so much room?

    It reminds me of a story. We have some friends who used to live in NYC. They owned a small one-bedroom apartment, and when their kid was born, they knew they had to move. Very fortunate for them, their tiny apartment sold very well, which allowed them to move out to the country and buy a house. When we went to visit them after their move, their modest house was sparsely filled with furniture, and pictures on the wall. “We have more house than stuff,” they told us, “but we don’t want to buy stuff just to fill it up.” Their house is still scantly decorated.

    I think we would also have a home with nothing in it, a little Scandinavian Style. (You know I have an IKEA fascination, right?) I’m not excited about owning a house, but the older I get, I find myself wanting a yard. Well, a back yard actually. Not so much for me, but for the kid. A backyard and an imagination is a pretty awesome thing to have as a kid.

  • Small Town Research

    For Labor Day, I took the three days to not write. I only journaled on Saturday morning, but that was all of the physical act of writing that I did.

    We spent time out of New York City, and tried to honestly forget about being stuck in our apartment, and all the other things that are going wrong due to Covid.

    I was able to get the family to go with me upstate to look at some of the towns and the region that I am thinking about as the setting as the novel. I took pictures on my phone, and thought about how some places are just tourist traps, while other small towns fight hard not change what they have been for decades.

    Most ideas being thrown on the heap…

  • Autobiographical Fiction

    Last night I was working on the novel, and I noticed that my second chapter was getting pretty big, unwieldy, and that I still had yet figure out how to wrap it up. Again, I know it’s a first draft, but I thought it best to just cut it off, start the third chapter, and continue the idea of building up the dynamic of the town. As I am about to move the protagonist’s story to New York City, I need to make sure the small town he finds himself in is defined for a clear contrast to what his current life is, and what his past life in the City was like.

    I know; nice and vague, right?

    And as I came up with these thoughts for my own story, I had this moment where I felt like I was not doing the best job of disguising myself and my experiences in my own work. It is fiction, after all. I know that writers writing about themselves is nothing new, especially novels. Hell, that was Wolfe’s entire career.

    How autobiographical can you get in your work and still call it fiction?

    And the reverse, how much fiction can you create about yourself, and still call it the truth?

    It is my personal belief that all fiction is based on the writer creating the story, and it has spurned a whole subsection of fiction. I would even take it a step further, and say that autobiographical writing is expected nowadays. How can you be honest in your story if you are not being honest about yourself with the reader?

    Just thoughts I am having while working.