“I feel like I just took a bath, a bath in my own sweat, ” said I. Welcome to summer New York. It’s that riveting time of year, when the garbage gets stinker, rich people flock to the Hamptons and shirtless men jog along the Hudson River.
While most New Yorkers hate the slushy sidewalks of winter, I find my greatest inspiration in a snow -covered city. Though the weather may not be as delightful as an autumn walk in Riverside Park, I still open myself to the inspiration around me.
That’s right the inspiration was all around me. Unfortunately, writer’s block had captured my brain cells. I cried a bit.
As I struggled in literary purgatory, I wondered, if my creative streak done was done with. I stared into the blank page of death. In the grand tradition of logical Manhattanite, I brought my problems to that most treasured of New York characters, the Upper West Side therapist.
“I feel a certain amount of guilt lately. I don’t know if it stems from too many of years of Catholic school, but I am around all this inspiration and can’t write for shit,” I told her. She shook her head and glared up from her decorative journal.
“It’s ok to not feel inspired, but I do have something for you,” she said. I looked on with great curiosity. She pulled out a very mysterious little cloth bag. As she handed it to me, I looked in puzzlement.
“Those are Guatemalan worry dolls. You tell them your worries and place them under your pillow at night. At night you wake up and your troubles will diminish,” she said with an honest smile. I shook my head and thought, these are stick figures made from real sticks and adorned with yarn, but if she says so, I’ll place them under my pillow, “I said to myself.
As predicted, I told the stick figures my troubles and placed them under my pillow. To my surprise, writer’s block didn’t go away, but it made for a good laugh.
The odyssey out of writer’s block land continued. I sat out in coffee shops in the East Village, took field trips to Brooklyn and wandered Harlem, but alas writer’s block became a chronic condition.
Unexpectedly, I ended up on Fifth Avenue in the 50s. I waited to meet up with a friend. The humidity levels blanketed Midtown’s glamorous office towers. I craved the artificial chill of a chain store on a summer’s day.
I headed to Uniqlo. I was wow-ed by (of all things) the t-shirt collection. The t-shirts were a bit of artwork. There were artist interpretations of London’s Big Ben & Paris’s Arc de Triomphe. However, I was most delighted by the musician’s collection.
As a Madonna fan, I loved the t-shirts featuring the queen of Pop. In the middle of t-shirt land, the walls of writer’s block crumbled. “I found my inspiration, a story about t-shirts,” said. Although, I hadn’t worn t-shirts in years (button downs and polos are more of my style), they were a significant part of my life as teenage fashionista; it was an integral part of my identity. A story was born. The paragraph started like this:
Growing up, I would take trips my favorite clothing shop. I would pick out very decorative t-shirts. I adored the art work the most. They represented my love of travel, newspapers, New York and status as a teenage reject.
After my trip to Uniqlo, I quickly put my fingers to a keyboard and wrote my t-shirt story. My battle against writer’s block ended at that moment. The blank page had been adorned with words about my adolescence. I once again felt like a well-inspired and fun loving writer. I stared at the Guatemalan worry dolls and proclaimed, “Hey you guys tried your best.” Then I turned off the lights and fell into a world of imagination.