Mental Paper Jams, New York City and How Hemingway Would Have Dealt

Here I am again. In front of this computer. Awash in a familiar blue glow. Fingers poised for action.

And nothing.

Not an essay, not a paragraph, not even a sentence to translate the lightening bolts of thought I having zinging 'round my brain. Somewhere a synapse fired and missed, and now I have a paper jam, of sorts, in the part of my brain that commands my hands to pen my story.

And, oh! What a story it is! If only...

If only I could

Wiggle.

It.

Free.

I heard a writer say once that the cure for writer's block is to persuade your pen to keep on moving. Unfortunately, my pen is as stubborn as I, and my pen refuses to move. Besides, darnit, I never was very persuasive.

Hemingway said that the key to writing is to always start with one true sentence.

one true sentence one true sentence one true sentence

Okay...Here's one true sentence: I woke up today with the words to 'New York State of Mind' turning, broken record-style, through my, already congested, brain. I have got to take Billy Joel off my turntable. And, quickly! Before I am utterly consumed by my romantic notions of taking a greyhound on the Hudson River line.

I swear, I yearn everytime Billy sings the line 'I know what I'’m needing and I don't want to waste more time. I'm in a New York state of mind.'

I yearn, yes, and then my world turns black and white, and all of the sudden I am overcome with visions of Holly Golightly sitting on her window perch singing 'Moonriver' and looking positively pretty. Holly, too, was in a New York state of mind. And, most likely, she- like me- pined away for New York City winters.

(And, New York City springs, summers and falls, for that matter.)

But, I doubt that Holly would have wasted her time checking--(FOUR times in ONE day)-- for the addition of her name to the website for New York licensed nurses.

Yes. That is what I have done. Today. In case you're wondering.

In September I applied for a nursing license in New York. That was four excruciating months ago. And for four months I have listened to Billy Joel sing about New York City. For four months I've imagined that I could be Holly Golightly sitting in my New York City window. And, for four months I have checked for the addition of my name to the database of New York nurses.

But, the only name that Merritt coma Emily returns to me is a Ms. Emily G. Merritt, RN of New York, New York.

That's not me, I'm quite certain. But, I'm always left with the same nagging question: Who is Emily G. Merritt?

I like to imagine that she lives in the Lower East Side. She rents a lovely studio apartment with a view of the neighboring brick wall. She takes long walks in Little Italy and always stops for cannoli at Sal's. She collects found pennies, and 1940s pill-box hats. When she's feeling melancholy, she spends the afternoon alone, watching foreign films at the old theatre down the block. She goes to the Guggenheim on rainy Tuesdays, and the flea market on sunny Fridays. She takes the F train to work, but always walks the 9 blocks home. She thinks about a boy she once knew that smelled like off-brand fabric softener. When she misses him most, she sits at the laundry mat and reads Anais Nin novels.

But, that's her story. Not mine. I'm Emily A. Merritt, and my story is slightly different. But, my story is currently stuck behind one heckofa mental paper jam.

And, for cryin' out loud, I just can't seem to...

Wiggle.

It.

Free.

Perhaps I'll give up for now and head to the laundry mat.

(Now if I could just find my copy of 'Henry and June'...)