It pains me to tell you this, dear reader, but two nights ago someone was shot on my block. Still alive; just a scratch to the forearm, by the accounts I’ve heard. It’s the first incident of this kind I know about in the year I have lived in Prospect Heights, but my testimony would be unreliable: I was home during said incident, and failed to hear either the two gunshots, the wail of police sirens, or the roar of the helicopters over our neighbourhood subsequent to the shooting. Perhaps I have early-onset deafness, or maybe it was just that crazy syncopated music I was listening to was turned up too loud. Anyway, the drug/love/territorial dispute which prompted the shots has resulted in one hospitalization and one new presence on our block: a roster of New York’s finest, on foot and in their little three-wheeler NYPD vehicles.
I couldn’t help but marvel that this event occurred in the week that I am vacating my apartment. After finishing the book I suddenly became detached from my neighbourhood and started spending time again in the touristic surrounds of Central Park and Museum Mile. I am surrounded by boxes and piles of papers to be sorted by the end of the week, an inevitable drag. In the midst of my logistical tango I am also attempting to organise my European vacation (I fly to London on Sunday), meetings with agents and editors, and possibly even a local agent for The Young Widow’s Book itself. In other words, my usual frenzy.