New York City is no place for the faint of pocket. I have been noticing how my theatre-going and jazz-lounging has been curtailed over the past few months (I can be quite slow on the uptake sometimes) due to the pressing financial imperatives of rent and food.

This is not the city to simply get up, go to work, come home and watch TV. There are so many exciting and stimulating things to do in this city. But they all take lots of money. It’s $20 just to walk into a museum these days, and $40 at a minimum for a seat at even an off-off-Broadway show. Don’t forget to add the tax, either.

But I am trying to write my book and earn my rent at the same time, so my socialising has been curtailed somewhat. It’s frustrating – who doesn’t want to see and do everything this city has to offer? – but it seems to me today that those “trustafarian” Ivy League graduates really do have all the fun … simply because they can afford to. I feel so bourgeois to be so conscious of not enjoying dinners out and jazz clubs and the theatre. But I’m here, in New York City, for gods’ sake!

Still recovering – literally – from a rather large joint birthday party celebrated on Australia Day with my friend Kate Veitch at her Manhattan residence (aka Phillip’s place). The photos will have to speak for themselves as my powers of articulation are, momentarily, somewhat compromised.

Brief captions L-R: Chocolate crackles setting rock-hard on the freezing deck of the apartment; Lara, Kate and Phillip, Lara’s friend Sarah; Snowdon, me, Steve Saffel (editor of my client David Kowalski’s forthcoming novel The Company of the Dead); Simi Linton and me; view from the newly built mezzanine-level bedroom; Lara, Sarah, me, Mark.

Saturday was a complete write-off. Apologies to those who were anticipating my usual Sunday-morning phone call in Sydney…

Last night I attended a panel discussion about the writing of memoirs and articles in the first person. For $25 I got to hear from the editors of the New York Times “Modern Love” section and its magazine’s “Lives” section, from the original New York food critic Gael Greene, from a memoir-acquirer who is part of the Random House group, and from a young up-and-comer in the women’s magazine industry.

As always, I was astounded to hear from these panellists that the overwhelming majority of what they receive is, well, crap. Apparently many would-be contributors submit essays in which they blame others for whatever (negative) experience they choose to write about; they exhibit insufficient insight into themselves, thereby diminishing the reader’s interest in them; they tell, rather than show, what their problem or dilemma is.

I found this class enormously helpful for all of the various “hats” I choose to wear – consultant to a writer (Simi Linton), agent to memoirists (Sally Cooper and another who will remain unnamed at this stage), and as a writer of my own messy effort, still well and truly in the rough drafting stage.

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. Unfortunately.

Dressing for winter here is a skill that I’ve realised needs some acquiring. With all the layers of clothing necessary for comfortable travel out of doors, any journey indoors means a host of decisions need to be made. How long will I be inside this store? Is it worth removing my hat? My gloves? My scarf? The scarf I can usually whip off with a single-handed flourish and stuff it into my handbag. Same with the hat and gloves – especially if I’m wearing my olive-green matching set. But my down jacket, whose double zipper tabs conspire to infuriate me each time I try to zip them up, is another matter entirely.

I almost expired in Barnes & Noble this afternoon after a fateful decision not to remove said jacket, as there had been too many tussles with the zippers today already. As I wandered the “New in Paperback” section and then followed a lead upstairs to the Biography section, the slow but inexorable trickle of sweat down my back told me I’d made a terrible mistake. By the time I left the store I had four new books to carry, several blocks to walk to the nearest subway station, and a pervasive feeling of heat-induced distress.

By the time I got on the train I was almost demented with the oven-like heat wrapped around me. Of course, there was nowhere to sit because it was rush hour, so I had to pretend to a Zen state for another 30 minutes during the ride home.

I nearly skipped for the joy of the brisk wintry air on my face and hands as I emerged from my Eastern Parkway station, coat unzipped, my inner layers of clothing bared for all the world to see. My demure black cardigan, long skirt and calf-length boots seemed as shocking to those walking past me, wide-eyed at my dismissal of the elements, as if I were wearing only a strappy dress.

I can officially add “grant writer” to my resume – over the weekend my client Simi Linton was advised by the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council that she had been successful in her application for a grant from their Manhattan Cultural Fund. An application that I had been up to my kahunas in devising, budgeting and writing.

What a fantastic feeling to hear that news. In the scheme of arts funding, it’s small potatoes BUT one must start somewhere. The purpose of the grant money is to help produce a theatrical adaptation of Simi’s memoir, entitled My Body Politic: An Illustrated History. Look out Broadway!

Wintry scenes of my immediate neighbourhood – my closest subway stop and the imposing Brooklyn Museum, literally two short blocks from my apartment. Eastern Parkway is the main thoroughfare that winds past the museum, the Botanical Gardens next door and the lovely Prospect Park.

Two Australians feature prominently in the museum’s current exhibitions. A willowy Nicole Kidman is featured on the poster hanging outside the museum to promote the retrospective of Annie Liebovitz’s photography. Celebrity portraiture doesn’t especially float my boat, but I was just amazed by the sculptures of (Australian-born) Ron Mueck in another exhibition – see this page from the Museum’s website for some examples.

Once upon a time someone with a child named Jihad had the telephone number that is now my own. Yes, Jihad. I have reached this conclusion because at least four times a week I return home to see a flickering number on my answering machine. I still get excited at the prospect of its being a caller from home (all my local chums use the “cell”) but most times when I press Play I hear instead an automated message from George Washington High School.

The message lets me know that “your child, [a slight pause in which the automated program inserts the name] Jihad Shelby, was not present at school today.” The voice continues, reminding me that “a missed day of school is a missed day of instruction”. By the number of times I have heard this message, Jihad’s missed a lot of school, and a lot of instruction. God knows what he’s actually been doing.

That’s what it looked like to me, as I stepped outside my apartment building to go for one of my high-speed power walks on Saturday morning. While I was sleeping, snow had fallen in sufficient quantities to cover the sidewalks with a light coverage of about an inch of snow (sidewalk; inch – what’s happening to me?!)

Best of all was the postcard-perfect vision as I entered Prospect Park, where the entire place – rolling lawns, manicured pathways, woods of native vegetation – looked as it it had been giving a solid dusting of white. There was even an eggshell-thin layer of ice over the duck pond.

Walking through the park, which was close to empty except for a few dozen rugged-up freaks like me, I felt like I was in a film set in New York, but of course this time it’s for real. The locals tell me I’ll soon discover what the snow looks like after a few days’ worth of smog and soot and traffic and people. But yesterday was pure magic to me.

I should be careful what I purchase – as soon as I reported buying a pair of waterproof boots, it decided to snow. I was working away diligently, nose down into the laptop, high up on the 17th floor, and looked out the windows to see bona fide snow flakes angling towards the ground. A light dusting of snow, just to get me in the New York wintry mood.

Later, when I left the office, I was surprised at how relatively warm the temperature felt. Apparently the conditions have to be just right for the snow to arrive. It continued to snow lightly for a couple of hours. This morning, when I left my apartment for the usual Friday errands, I was delighted to find snow still on the ground. For an Australian, experiencing four distinct seasons is such a treat.

Above are photos of the view from the home office where I work, taken the day before it snowed. Those who have been following this blog since my arrival in New York last March might recognise the view – it’s very similar to that from the apartment I first lived in, on 72nd Street and Riverside Drive. My employer is further uptown, on 86th and Riverside, looking out over Riverside Park and the Hudson River, and across to the Jersey shore. She even has a balcony (far right), where during summer we occasionally enjoyed lunch. When it snows heavily, I’ve been told, one cannot even see to the other side of the river.

Do you recognise me underneath all these layers? Outside my employer’s home-office front door, directly opposite the liftwell, is a full-length mirror that kindly reminds me every day just how becoming my winter uniform is. In the streets, a touch of colour in a scarf or hat is a welcome sight – everyone is decked out from head to toe in basic black and variations thereof.

After work today I bought on sale a pair of fur-lined waterproof boots – not because I wanted them, but because I’ve been told by locals that I simply do not want to be without a pair when the below-freezing temperatures are joined by howling wind and rain. Cold is one thing; cold and wet is entirely another. 

This week I jotted down a few things I’ve noticed on return to New York after one month away from the city, on holiday back home in Australia. Continue Reading »

Ivy is my new pot plant, a delicate little thing whom I picked up at the Farmers’ Market around the corner from my place on Saturday.

The market was relatively deserted, containing many fewer producers than the last time I visited in November. I attribute the low numbers to the colder weather. But as people still need to eat their fresh vegetables, I wonder where they are shopping now? Back to the undercover mall, I suppose.

So I couldn’t avoid seeing the array of lovely indoor plants all up for adoption for a measly $5. I pointed to one plant and asked the seller its name. “That’s a ficus,” he said. “Ah, that’s a ficus. I’m an ignoramus,” I replied.

“Hey, that’s a good one,” he said, in a wonderfully strong Bronx accent. So I brought Ivy, who has grown up in the Bronx, into my Brooklyn apartment, which she sits elegantly on my kitchen windowsill and keeps me company.

What else to do when contemplating a day’s writing? Go for a long walk in Prospect Park.

It was my first walk there since early December. The place was near empty and quiet of birds. Even the squirrels made no noise as they jumped around, because all the leaves have now disappeared from the trees, and somehow from the ground too – perhaps they’ve turned to mulch already. A beautiful soft mist snuggled into the trees, and the whole place was as still as a photograph.

The weather has turned relatively warm again, and the sustained higher temperature (by that I mean 8-12 Celsius rather than the average 0-7 for this time of year) has resulted in the very early budding of many trees. The locals are quite disconcerted about it. I always think buds are such a hopeful sight that I don’t really mind when they decide to appear, even if spring isn’t officially sprung until mid-March.

I can’t resist showing off this happy couple – my brother and his lovely wife – snapped while rather “full” on my brother’s birthday at a local boozer with some chums, and just returned from a Port Douglas honeymoon.

I know, I know, there aren’t any photos of their wedding yet, nor of me in my DvF dress (for the acronymically challenged, that’s Diane von Furstenberg, darling). The only documentary proof of my attendance at this wedding that I’ve seen thus far makes me look like a drag queen – too big a smile, too much lipstick – so that one’s remaining “offline”.

It’s winter, and the subway rats are unashamedly parading in front of commuters’ eyes as they scamper and sniff their way around the railway tracks. This is a somewhat confronting sight to someone who prides herself on living a clean life (hygienically speaking), but, as I’ve discovered in the past three days travelling the subway to and from work, the vision is now also a daily one.

I can only attribute the sudden brazen visibility of these rodents to the cooler weather (hovering between 0 and 10 degrees Celcius at the moment). Perhaps they like to cosy up to the railway tracks instead of fossicking in the dark cold corners of the tunnels?

Those of us standing on the railway platforms, decked out in hats, scarves, coats, gloves and boots, instinctively cringe at the sight of them but can’t help empathising. At least, I couldn’t.

Putting the finishing touches on Simi Linton’s website, we have been discussing the ins and outs of managing her new blog. Simi asked me how I deal with all the comments I receive on my own blog (ie this website).

I confessed that most of my comments were spam, which have now disapeared to the addition of a spam filter. However, she was more surprised to hear that my regular readers choose not to post a comment because they are hesitant about appearing in public.

“It’s an Australian thing,” I said. “Quite different to America, where everyone wants to be heard, no matter how banal their contribution.”

Fortunately she thought that was hilarious. “I’m definitely going to have the opposite problem,” she said. I’ll report back in a few months.

Wise people suggest that writing down your goals for the year is a useful way of helping them actually happen. In that spirit I’m going to announce publicly (while this blog is mainly for interested friends and family, this is the internet, after all) my plans for the year:

*Finish my book
*Complete a few short courses at NYU’s Centre for Philanthropy and Fundraising
*continue to establish Bridge Literary Services

Come summer in the northern hemisphere, I hope to be wrapping up my NYC experience and jetting home, via an extended European visit. Sounds like a plan to me.

The above phrase pretty much sums up my month in Sydney. Between brunches, lunches, dinners and drinks, I managed a few lazy hours in front of the cricket and another couple here and there on the sofa with a book. Wireless broadband connection was limited in Drummoyne, so I also took a forced vacation from the laptop.

Exhibits A and B are from, respectively, a wonderful ladies’ lunch at Point Piper with my former colleagues, and the farewell drinks for Joy (thoughtfully wearing white in both photos) in the office I myself left behind nearly one year ago. These precious women helped me through the most difficult year of my life – my enduring thanks to you.

Happy snap from Potts Point (or Potts Pwah as some locals are beginning to pronounce it – similarly to Tar-zhay for Target) featuring me with my old high school pal Kelsey and her partner Loren. Kelsey and Loren live in Los Angeles, but Sydney was much more appealing to me as a place to meet for breakfast.

As a major events producer, Kelsey’s company, Little Divas, is responsible for a number of high-profile events in California. While on this particular Saturday she was brunching with me, next weekend would find the ubiquitous Brad and Angelina hanging around at her next event. Pesky celebrities.

“How long you bin gone?” the Immigration officer inquired of me when I stepped forward from the US Citizens and Permanent Residents line for interrogation before collecting my suitcase from the carousel at the dreadful LAX.

“Four weeks,” I smiled, trying to sound happy to be back.

“I could use a holiday,” he said. “But Mr Bush don’t let us have four weeks though. Welcome back.”

So here I am, after the final leg across the country, back in NYC. But it’s not home.