The smell of newsprint thrills me as much today just as it did when I was a little girl, hoisted on Granddaddy’s hip, taking a tour of the back shop. I remember inhaling the heady mixture of ink, bay breezes and dirt…

I did it! With–and only with–y’all’s help. Many, many thanks to all my readers.

FICTION: DEBUT.
BELLE OF NEW YORK, about a beautiful Southern Debutante who comes to New York and lands a job in the mosh pit news room of a highly conservative cable network while reveling in the hedonisitic pleasures of the city, based on the blog BELLE IN THE BIG APPLE, was sold to Sarah McGrath at Scribner, by Bill Contardi at Brandt & Hochman (world rights acquired).

Looks like I’ll be staying in the Big Apple after all… Now, all I have to do is convince Southern Boy to move up here with me.

“This is it,” Suze said, her tone much like that of my older sister. I knew that she wanted to sound out her definitive vision of me and my life but, she held back, she knew that I could hear the muddle of mischief and disbelief in her voice. “L-O-V-E, love—you love the man. Don’t deny it.” The more authoritative she sounded, the more she wanted me to substantiate her claims.

“I’m not denying anything,” I responded contentedly. I held the phone in one hand and the stem of my wine glass in the other. Our five o’clock cocktail ritual had somewhat changed since Suze had gotten married, popped out a son and moved to Long Island. Instead of the two of us sharing a bottle of wine on my terrace, I nursed a glass and looked out my kitchen window as she breastfed the baby in her living room and sipped a Jamba Juice smoothie.

“Listen to you! You’re so calm and assured and— Shit! The baby just bit my nipple. Can you hold on while I switch boobs?”

Aaaah… The trials and tribulations of having a lactating friend…

“I’m back! Are you there? Belle?”

“Still here.”

“Anyway, I was saying that you’re more calm, more private—is ‘serene’ an appropriate word for a 25 year-old?”

“You’re right, everything is different, easier, you know? Things just fall into place whereas before, with the others, I felt like I had to work so hard. Now I realize that I had to put forth all that effort because it was wrong, the guys were wrong, we were wrong together—”

“Have you ever seen a bleeding nipple? Shit, I wish I could show you mine right now—looks like they’ve been through a meat-grinder.”

“Back to serenity…”

“Yeah, come on, talk to me. Tell me about the little things, the sweet stuff. Christ, at this point I’d be happy to hear about anything that takes my mind off of these giant lactating footballs that the doctor calls breasts.”

“Well, he writes me love letters,” I began, suddenly shy.

“That’s it— you have to read me one.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Suze. It’s kind of private and—”

“Whatever. You know the condition of my nipples, I can know the state of your relationship.”

“Fine. Here goes. This is an email that I woke up to this morning.”

Belle,

Tonight I go to sleep worried, troubled as I think of my love in even the slightest discomfort, discouraged that you are so far away, that there is nothing I can do to comfort you, that these futile words are my only offering. Frustration. I find myself in a situation where I am out of control- I want to do something, I want to fix it (this what I do, I fix things) I want to fix you- I want to hold you close and make everything ok. Alas, I can’t. Rather I lie here a thousand miles, pulling my covers tight, wrapping my arms around nothing, saying a prayer for you, my baby… Then, just before sleep comes, I pull the sheets a little closer, whisper I LOVE YOU but no one is there to hear it… I sigh, and think of you one last time. Good night, my sweet.

“Killing me, killing me,” Suze said in what was her shorthand way of expressing unmitigated approval.

“Everything with him just makes sense. It’s easy.”

“He’s Southern, you’re Southern– The baby just barfed on my new cashmere sweater. Can we talk tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

Girl’s night on the town and C. looks like a Hoover vacuum, coke on any flat surface are her dust and debris. I called “Mimi” to come and save me, talk to me, sip vodka with me instead of snorting dust with the rest. She was at home, watching movies w. her new beau. Smart girl.

Maybe I’ll stay in tonight.

I’m afraid to move from

New York City.

Three little words. They cite nothing more than geographical location (as opposed to the ever-important, “I love you”), and yet they invoke awe, envy, disgust, cynicism and wonderment like nothing else. NO ONE harbors neutral feelings about the Big Apple. I’m addicted to this knee-jerk reaction. It all began when I studied in Buenos Aires and then moved to Rome only to extend my exotic city tour to Palma de Mallorca and then to Sevilla. Automatic respect—“street cred,” if you’ll allow a white girl from the South to use such an expression—comes w. these legendary cities. I’m hooked.

There’s that. And, too, there are nights out on the town w. photography exhibitions and dinner of tempura-fried haricot verts and cabrales steak salad (last night) or champagne and Italian men at “Da Silvano” (2 nights ago) or dancing until dawn at “Cain” and “Marquee” (tonight). Everything I’ve cited is immediate gratification for the senses.

I taste it.
I drink it.
I watch their eyes widen when I say it.
“New York City.”

So, what would I do if I were in Birmingham, Alabama or Duluth, Georgia? Maybe I’d try a little harder because there wasn’t a name to sustain me. Perhaps I’d write more (and imbibe less) if I were further removed from the sins of Dante’s seven circles of hell. Or, maybe I’d just be bored.
I’m biting my lip. I just looked away from the screen. I can’t believe that I’m considering a life elsewhere.

My hair still smells of chicory and pulled pork and my tongue is thick w. vowels and southernisms but I’m FINALLY back in the city–settled in my little apartment in SoHo! Allow me an hour or so to unpack and then’ll I’ll write a post…