Yesterday I threw a stone in Brooklyn. Ouch, said a writer. I walked a block or two away toward the Botanical Gardens, and threw another, bigger stone. Ouch, said another writer, protecting his laptop with one hand and rubbing his bruised neck with the other. Just proves the old saying. Writers are wimps.
A recent article in The New York Observer lists the top 100 literary people/places/organizations in Brooklyn by neighborhood. They’ve even included a friendly cartoon map with icons signifying your local Brooklyn writering holes. One Story is #21, perched precariously near the Gowanus in our beloved Can Factory, in which no cans are made.
The article then creepily goes on to list authors by neighborhood. The sound you hear is the hum of several literary razor phones in Brooklyn dialing moving companies. I suggest they move to Woodside, Queens, where yesterday I threw a stone and hit an Irish pub, arguably the finest among inspirations.