A Marshmallow on the Bus

INTRODUCTION

When you think of writers working on their stories, the great novels, the insightful poems, you probably think, like I used to, that the best work gets done in calm seclusion. There’s a fire crackling in the fireplace, a soft snowfall outside the frost-tinged windows. Or the writer has a huge open desk, piled high with research and inspiration, a broad view of the ocean in the direct line of sight from the Widow’s Walk of a greying Victorian manse.  

Well, neither works for me. When I was in college, I used to go to the local fried chicken place instead of the library. I knew too many people at the library and the French fries kept me going. And now, I write on the bus or the subway. If I have that much time to myself – meaning I don’t know anybody in the bus or on that train car – then I am grateful and I am writing.  

Sometimes, I write about the bus, as in Next Bus Please and other days, I am completely captivated with some random event taking place near my bus stop, as in The Hippy on Primary Day or Selling ‘Usage to a Writer Waiting for The Bus. There are days when the view out the window is something that just doesn’t leave until I make sense of it on paper, like The Life of a Squirrel.  

Part of the reason I find the MTA in New York so compelling is that I grew up with cars, not daily rides on public transportation. In many ways, getting on the train in the morning is like riding an amusement ride at a theme park. The theme is not always clear to me, but the riders are so interesting and the stations are all different.   

You could try to characterize how the stations and bus shelters represent their neighborhood, but you’d probably be wrong. There’s the violinist on the platform on the Upper West Side in the morning or the guy with the misspelled sign on his coffee cart – but both of them had to travel at least some distance to get there. It’s a function of a process in flux – everyone moves, nothing sticks in place. Some days, I feel like a huge carousel has slowed down just long enough for me to swing up and grab a horse.  

I feel that it’s necessary to mention that although I have lived in New York for 35 years, I am no expert. I get flummoxed giving tourists direction and just a few weeks ago, I sent a lovely Asian couple in the wrong direction when they asked how to get to Rockefeller Center. It’s hopeless – the city is too big, too distracting. I have never been to Staten Island, or the Top of the Rock. I’ve never seen the end of the New York Marathon, and I have never walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. But I have lived in three wonderful neighborhoods and, every day, I am getting to know my way around this city one bitty bit better at a time.  

The bus riding continues. The writing continues.

NB: This is an excerpt from my book, "A Marshmallow on the Bus: A Collection of Stories Written on the MTA."

AMAZON:

http://www.amazon.com/Marshmallow-Bus-Collection-Stories-Written/dp/1496054741

CREATE SPACE:

https://www.createspace.com/4686860

BARNES & NOBLE:   

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-marshmallow-on-the-bus-anne-born/1119838210?ean=9781496054746