This question was the topic of one of the final sessions of the PEN World Voices writers’ festival. I took the subway into Manhattan and found one of the few remaining seats at the Instituto Cervantes – a place I’d never heard of before, an Upper East Side home to an organization that promotes Spanish culture and language abroad.

The session featured a novelist from Argentinia and one from the Netherlands, in addition to New Yorker Lee Stringer (whose home was a tunnel beneath Grand Central Station for 12 years) and the ever-charming Alain de Botton, whose most recent book The Architecture of Happiness I have recently gobbled up during the research for my Young Widow’s Book of Home Improvement. His presentation, which featured a slideshow and had everyone in stiches, explored the ways in which the idea of “home” refers both to physical and psychological “space”.

Especially pungent was the odor of the man seated next to me. In addition to his body odor he jiggled his legs incessantly and coughed and spluttered and cleared his phlegmy throat for the entire hour and a half of the session. Then he had the audacity to go up to the presenters after the session had ended. I wanted to warn them but was too desperate for fresh air, so I bid a hasty retreat. It’s a little bit sad to think that my smelly neighbor will be one of the things I remember most vividly about this otherwise wonderful session.

My local cafe, Cheryl’s on Underhill Street, boasts brilliant coffee, wonderful food, and staff who are fun and interesting. Typically the waitstaff are taking turns at the coffee machine en route to more creative careers. My friend and barista, Derek, is a great example: in between granting this Australian her regular coffee fix, he writes short stories and illustrates them himself. His illustrations have already appeared in the New York Times and The New Yorker. Here is a link to his website.On Thursday afternoons Cheryl’s becomes a magnet for a particular mothers’ group, whose members arrive en masse with children in strollers like four-wheel drives. The mothers line up their progeny against the side of the cafe that has bench seating along its entire length, so that from one end to the other the bench is covered in small children.

I am almost cross-eyed after many hours in front of the computer today writing applications for approval of something called “fiscal sponsorship” from the New York Foundation for the Arts (NYFA).

For individual artists, fiscal sponsorship means an arrangement whereby a non-profit “sponsor” organisation (in this case, NYFA) agrees to be the conduit for your project – a project which would otherwise be attractive to only a handful of grant-making entities. Funders might be non-profit entities, but they like their tax deductions, you see, and stipulate that their grants be made only to non-profit organisations. Individual artists tend on the whole not to be non-profit organisations. It’s an oil-and-water kind of thing. Therefore people like my client (clients plural, I can now confidently state, since securing an exciting new visual arts client this week, who also needs a dang application written) can benefit from fiscal sponsorship by its ability to open funding doors previously locked shut.

With two small grants successfully under our mutual belt, and the endorsement of some senior figures in the theatre and film spheres, I am confident that Simi’s applications (one for each of the theatre and documentary projects) will be approved.

And all of that means that I have many more grant applications to go before I sleep.

Having just today paid my membership dues for the Sydney branch of PEN, the international association of writers working to “advance literature, defend free expression, and foster literary fellowship”, I am thrilled to report on an event I attended tonight as part of the PEN World Voices festival of international literature here in New York.

My friend Madeleine came with me to gorge on a buffet of readings from a stellar cast of writers. Introduced by Salman Rushdie, the theme of “Writing Home” was addressed by writer/comic Steve Martin (a hilarious extract from his forthcoming memoir), followed by others including Don DeLillo, youngest ever Booker prize-winner Kiran Desai, Mr Sandman himself Neil Gaiman, Nobel Prize recipient Nadine Gordimer, and a reading from Mr Rushdie himself to close out the night. It was jaw-dropping to see and hear these writers in person, all on the same stage, on the same night.

This festival is directed by former Sydney Writers’ Festival Director Caro Llewellyn.

Regular readers might remember I attended a sublime concert of jazz music recently at Carnegie Hall featuring Brad Mehldau and Pat Metheny. My review of said concert has just been published on the website of SIMA, the Sydney Improvised Music Association. Back in the day (as the locals are fond of saying), I used to be heavily involved with this organisation, which facilitates performance opportunities for jazz musicians in Sydney and has done so for more than 20 years. These days my friend Peter Jordan edits and manages SIMA’s website, and he generously agreed to accept my review, which you can read here.

I think the weekend just passed is the first since I started writing this blog that I did not post anything new. Apologies, gentle reader, but I was busy learning and networking at the American Society of Journalists and Authors Conference all day Saturday and Sunday. My head was spinning at the end but I took copious notes and will share snippets with you once I get organised – my apartment is covered in papers and magazines and manuscripts and I have to go to work.

The most valuable thing I took away from this event is an anecdote that I aim to share at any writers conference or festival or panel to which I might one day be invited. (Said invitation presupposes publication of book which is still being written, but a great anecdote is gold, and one must hold on to them when one finds them.)

At a session on “revising your manuscript” – which I assumed, silly me, would focus on long-form works such as books rather than articles about snowboarding for regional magazines (the moderator’s day job) - I asked one panellist how she was finding the transition from writing articles to writing chapters of her first book. “I tend to write short,” I said, “and I was curious about whether that was something you struggled with.”

She looked at me quizzically through her cool glasses and said with a shrug, “If you’re writing short then you’re probably not passionate enough about your topic.”

The temptation to humiliate her in front of the entire audience by identifying the topic of my book was extreme. To my credit I resisted and did not press the point.

Later, in the “restroom”, another panellist approached me and said, “Honey [she's from LA], if you’re writing short, it probably means you’re not ready to write a book.”

I look forward to proving them all wrong.

Advance, the organisation that brings ex-pat Australians together for everything from keynote speakers to commemorating Anzac Day, held the inaugural event last night for its Media, Communications & Technology forum, of which I’m a member.

Participating in the talk-fest were long-time expat journalists Phillip McCarthy (SMH), Belinda Luscombe (Time magazine), a woman who writes for a magazine with the title Real Simple (really), and the recently arrived Michael Maher from ABC-TV. Moderated by an Australian former journalist who now works for the Ford Foundation, the discussion meandered due to her self-acknowledged lack of preparation. Nobody was quite sure the purpose of the discussion, which wandered from celebrity worship to the Virginia Tech massacre and back again. There seemed to be an assumption that the media culture here in the US is wildly different from that in Australia, but I for one don’t believe that. As ever, the sheer size and scale of the industry and the population here means that there is a type and quality of information for everyone, from the least informed to the wildly curious among us.

After the panel we broke for Rosemount Chardy or Shiraz, and a bit of networking. I introduced myself to Maher as Lily Brett’s long-time editor. His documentary on expatriates, which aired last year on the ABC, featured Lily and her family, among others. The “literary scene” is one of the areas he’s covering as part of his new assignment in NYC, and we’re meeting next week to have a chat about it. I’ll have to think of something to tell him.

 

Although it’s still several months away, my thoughts are increasingly mixed about packing up and going home. I miss my friends and family, the wonderful food, the weather, and of course my house, very much. In my Brooklyn apartment – spacious by New York standards, I guess, but microscopic compared to what I’d become used to in Sydney - full of someone else’s furniture, and empty of visitors, I feel like I’m living the life of someone ten or fifteen years younger. Unfortunately I don’t feel any younger for it.

New York, however, is New York. There is no place like it in the world for the quality and variety of its cultural life. It takes money and energy to take advantage of all it has to offer.

From a professional point of view, my twin literary and philanthropic interests have happily converged in the consulting work I’ve been doing while in New York. As someone who has always worn a number of hats this has been somewhat of a relief. To keep the convergence going, I am doing a lot of professional development activities over the coming weeks and months – a conference this weekend, and a Summer Intensive in Philanthropy and Fundraising at New York University in July – in order to make the most of the knowledge that’s here and to forge new contacts.

I’ve also made a few appointments regarding options for coming and going between Sydney and New York in the future. I would of course prefer not to lose my green card but there are all sorts of restrictions about how long one can be outside the US. Another option might be to establish a company that can be operated by a non-resident. This is becoming an increasingly attractive idea, as I have been astounded at how slowly the publishing industry wheels turn over here, trying to represent my author clients. It’s a real compliment to Australia’s publishing industry. I’ll keep you posted on what I find out.

Last night at my PlayGroup writers’ meeting I let slip I would be giving up my Brooklyn apartment when its lease runs out at the end of August, and returning to Sydney shortly thereafter (quick side trip to Europe in September). I was taken aback by how upset these lovely people were – I only see them once a month, at most – that I was leaving so soon.

I met these women at the playwrights’ course I took when I first came to New York in early 2006. They joked last night that it fascinates them how many people I seem to know here, how much I have crammed into my time here already, and how I always seem to be going out. I laughed, because I often feel like I’m doing next to nothing, although I know that’s an exaggeration of my own warped kind.

“We’re going to hatch some plans to keep you here,” they told me. We’ve been tossing around doing a staged reading for a few friends of the things we’ve been writing – a theatrical adventure that up til now has been a threat rather than a promise. But it turns out we have a few potential venues, so who knows what the summer will bring?

“Well, you’re going to have to battle with my family and friends who often tell me how many months it is before I come home,” I replied.

“Maybe they can move to LA,” one suggested.

“Never!” I replied with mock outrage. “That means I’d have to go there to visit them.”

It’s been difficult to avoid the ads on TV for a new R-rated film. The classification makes the film technically off-limits to anyone younger than 18. That’s not a problem for the advertising folks, though. They decided to turn the pesky classification problem on its head, and came up with these enticing words to make sure the young testosterone-charged viewers know exactly what the rating means:

“Rated R for strong, brutal violence throughout.”

Evidently classifications aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on (if they’re even printed anymore).

Today, my Sunday, has been a complete wash-out. Literally. The weather forecasts on TV have been full of dire warnings for days about the storm, which hit early this morning and has only recently abated (it’s now about 6pm my time, 8am Monday Sydney time). More than five inches of rain bucketed down throughout the day, keeping me firmly indoors. It takes severe weather like this to keep me tucked up in bed, but today it was without doubt the best place to be.

I’m just amazed that it’s the middle of April and it’s still a lot colder here than it is in Sydney – hovering between 6 and 10 degrees Celcius. Soon I’ll be whinging about the humidity, but I’ve definitely had enough of the cool weather.

Good news: this week a second grant application I researched and wrote for a client has been successful. While the amount Simi Linton will receive from the Puffin Foundation (named after the darling Atlantic Puffin, above) is small potatoes in the scheme of US philanthropic funding, it nevertheless confirms the worth of the project (adapting Simi’s memoir for the stage) and positions Simi firmly within the arts, rather than in academia whence she fled several years ago.

According to their website, the Puffin Foundation seeks to “open the doors of artistic expression by providing grants to artists and art organizations who are often excluded from mainstream opportunities due to their race, gender, or social philosophy.”

Why the puffin? Apparently the bird was rescued from extinction by a “concerned citizenry” and now not only survives but flourishes, thus serving as a metaphor for the foundation’s mission. I reckon we could all do with a bit of foundation support now and then.

Stirring my spaghetti the other night, one ear on a PBS documentary about elephants (a favourite animal), for a moment I thought I recognised the narrator. The Rolodex in my brain started spinning as I tried to connect the woman’s mellifluous voice to my recent experience. Where had I heard that voice before?

The spaghetti was cooked and eaten by the time I had figured out the connection. Despite the fact I’ve never met the woman, she and I turn out to be only two degrees of separation apart. The voice belongs to the eminent stage and screen actor Kathleen Chalfant (above), whom I saw recently in “Spalding Gray: Secrets Left to Tell” at the Minetta Lane Theatre. (Previous post here.)

My client Simi had the pleasure of meeting Kathleen Chalfant over dinner a few weeks ago after seeing her in the same play, organised by a mutual friend of theirs in the theatre world. Since then Simi has been receiving occasional emails from someone identified only as “Lovekathy”, and it took her a while to figure out to whom the email address belonged.

So it was with great delight that, when I finally identified the narrator, I was able to chuckle to myself, “Ah! It’s Lovekathy!” as if she were an old friend. At times like this I feel like Forrest Gump.

 
Up in the gods at Carnegie Hall last night I enjoyed a sublime musical experience. Guitarist Pat Metheny and pianist Brad Mehldau wove a spell upon their audience, both as a duo and at times with the rest of Mehldau’s regular trio, the extraordinary Larry Grenadier (bass) and Jeff Ballard (drums).

Seeing the two headliners on stage together was like watching stars collide. The only unfortunate thing was that whoever directed the lighting took that metaphor a bit literally to my taste. Their repertoire was a mixture of compositions composed by either or both musicians, recorded on two CDs, the most recent of which was released two weeks ago.

I saw two people surreptitiously recording the concert – from my $66 balcony seat I had a bird’s-eye view - and wondered whether these music pirates were doing this for their private pleasure or to make a future buck at the artist’s (literal) expense. But even the pirates joined the rest of us for the standing ovation at the end.

The US tax year parallels the calendar year – no such thing as the financial year in this country - and April 15 is the deadline to submit my first tax return as a permanent resident.

It took me hours sorting through all my receipts and categorising them into levels of likely deductibility. Expenses took about 4.5 hours, and income 4.5 minutes, to complete. However, the job finished, bulging folder with elasticised clasp in hand, I walked into an imposing building right at Penn Station (34th St) and up to the office of my new accountant.

His name is Martin J. Finkle. His assistant took my folder and I rode the elevator back down to street level and walked out into the maelstrom of midtown. All digits crossed for a sizeable refund. Marty Finkle. You can’t get much more New York than that.

The religious freedom granted in the Constitution was never more apparent to me than by the absence of public holidays over Easter. While several Australians of my acquaintance took advantage of Good Friday and Easter Monday for an extended stay seaside, over here all work and no play makes Jack, of whatever his religious persuasion, a dull boy.

I kept myself occupied with films, drinks and polishing the draft of my manuscript, which I’m about to submit to a trusted professional for its first full-length reading after I finish this post. (Intake of breath.)

Hope everyone enjoyed themselves. I felt a very long way from home. And it’s still barely above freezing! I can’t believe it. Apparently it was colder at Easter than it was Christmas Day. Jesus.

No sooner did I visit Chumley’s on Tuesday (see post below) than an internal wall of the place literally collapsed. I woke this morning to the news that the historic speak-easy is now closed until further notice. Perhaps it was the weight of all that overly long male American fiction that brought the house down, but I couldn’t help wondering if I have an as-yet-untapped power to bring down the literary establishment.

If only I could work out a way to use my powers for good, rather than evil …

Chumley’s, a bar dating from the 1830s, is most famous for being a speak-easy during the Prohibition era of the 1920s. It’s easy to miss the entrance to the place – and that’s the whole point. Walking around this nook of Greenwich Village is entertaining for its jumble of tiny cafes, hipsters and crooked streets – the comforting cross-hairs of Manhattan’s famous street grid do not apply in this part of the city – but there are more charms hidden behind this closed door (above; photo spoiled by pesky scaffolding for a construction job).

Open this unmarked brownish-red door at 86 Bedford Street and you will find yourself in a narrow entry with no choice but to go up three or four stairs. At the top of the stairs, look to your right and you will see a cavernous tavern full of rickety tables and uppity waitresses. Look at the walls: a gallery of framed first-edition book covers and photographic portraits lined up from one end of the room to the other, signed by their famous authors (eg Hemingway) and subjects (eg Orson Welles).

My publishing colleague and friend Steve Saffel made the excellent suggestion we meet here for the most recent of our semi-regular chats about the vagaries of the publishing industry and writers’ lives. We even began tossing around ideas for a non-profit method (surprise!) to facilitate story-telling in the 21st century, as we’re not convinced the traditional book publisher is set up to take full advantage of the multiple opportunities that abound. If it sounds vague and mysterious, that’s because I haven’t been able to get any clearer about it myself. Stay tuned.

Given my primary writing project is consuming all of my time at the moment, I will not have a chance to write a reflection on my first year in NYC, which I marked yesterday, 31 March. For now I just want to note the fact that one year has passed.

As is always the way with anniversaries, the time seems to have gone both slowly and very quickly. I’m hoping to write an article about my year for an Australian publication. It seems that we only read about Australian “stars” living the high life in New York – what about someone quietly living, if not the low life, then a life that’s a lot closer to the ground? All comments and suggestions would be very welcome. (Remember, I don’t publish comments unless you say it’s OK, so please write.)

I had worked in Simi’s office on Friday and was nearly asleep at 6pm from staring at the computer screen all day. With no plans for the evening I feared getting home early and falling asleep on the couch. Determined not to waste my night, I hopped on the crosstown bus at 86th Street and was transported from the Upper West to the Upper East Side in no time.

Which was quite prophetic, given I had decided to attend a new exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum (which happens to be at 5th Ave and 86th St, and open till 9pm on Fridays) entitled Venice and the Islamic World, 828-1797. A survey of almost 1,000 years of financial and cultural trade between East and West, the exhibition was teeming with wonderful fabrics, ancient bound manuscripts (including one of the surviving manuscripts of Marco Polo’s Travels), maps, paintings and blown glass. One of the things that struck me the most was how much of Arabic culture was incorporated into the Venetian arts and cultural life (glass blowing and book binding are two Venetian arts that were heavily influenced by their Islamic trading partners), and how little transfered from Venice to the East.

Here’s a wonderful piece of trivia: Venetian diplomats always brought parmesan cheese with them as a gift to their trading partners, as it was so highly prized.

Above is a photo of my favorite piece, a recently discovered pair of wooden doors made in Venice around the end of the 16thC which feature ebony mouldings and semi-precious stones in patterns borrowed from the Arab world. Here are other images from the exhibition. It’s on until late July, so for anyone thinking of paying Apple Girl a visit …

Gentle Reader, many apologies for the lack of recent posts. My excuse, however, is solid: I have just completed a rough draft of THE BOOK and am up to my nose in revisions. My tendency towards concision, as exhibited in this blog, has played itself out on a broader scale: what I mean to say is that the book is on the short side. I am told by people who know such things that it is not something to worry about at present. My task is to build incrementally upon the existing framework.

While the architectural metaphor suits the subject matter of my book, I have been thinking of this revision phase more like embroidery, as on re-reading I’ve discovered some stretches of plain fabric that need some detailed work. Given that I can barely sew a button to a shirt, this could prove the most challenging part yet.