Just submitted my first piece to the New Yorker magazine. I've channeled the writing of Joseph Mitchell, a feature writer of the magazine from days long past, so I felt they should have the first read.
It's a non-fiction narrative about a little town named Evinston that is in danger of losing its post office--and its identity. But more, it's about the disappearing of America's heart and soul; bit by bit; tradition by tradition; small town by small town.
Make no mistake, I love modernity and the conveniences it has wrought, but I also value the timelessness of community and care for one's neighbor. Having lived in large metropolitan areas for most of my life, I was like a fish out of water visiting this town. I had lived in Boca Raton for nearly 20 years and only knew two of the neighbors on my street well, and here was a town where people lived for four and five and six generations and knew their family tree down to the roots. A place where everybody knows everybody, and they look out for each other. Sure, they have to drive 15 miles for a decent-sized grocery store, but the view from the porch on a star-studded night is dynamite.
So now that the bulk of my classwork is behind me, I can focus on my writing again. A thought that makes my little fingers feel like dancing.
See you soon,
MH
