Dark horse in the running?

It should come as a surprise to exactly no one that I love to read. Like most other posters on this blog, my bedroom (and living room, and dining room table) are cluttered with "to be read" stacks, and when contemplating Aimee's "top five books you've read in the past 5 years challenge, I got so overwhelmed I had to let the whole thing go. I mean, I named my *dog* Bridget Jones. After the book, of course (you'd be shocked at how many people ask).

Yeah, I love books.

I *also* love my new neighborhood.
I've been going on for ages now about how I've been moving downtown (and yes, I'm well aware that the process has taken at least six months). I think I've been moving one sock at a time, honestly. Because I am lazy. And busy. And addicted to reality television when I'm not writing. But here I am, now. Down on Leroy Street, in the heart of Greenwich VIllage.

If you've never been to NYC, I should explain: The Village is a charming little enclave all unto itself. Down here, the streets wind in and out as opposed to following "the grid," and many people live in lower brownstones or townhouses as opposed to towering skyscrapers. We've got amazing specialty restaurants and lots and lots of famous movies and tv shows have filmed on location down here.

Another thing we've got: a literary tradition.
Now that I'm moved in for reals, I've been working from the Hudson Park branch of the NYPL. It's not the biggest or brightest branch of the library, but it's two doors down from my house, with wireless internet and lots of space for me to spread out and space out over my work.

It was during just such a spaceing the other day that I saw it: a small bookshelf labeled: GREENWICH VILLAGE AUTHORS. And it must be said, though my own books were not on that shelf (I've only been a GVA for about two months now, ya know?), there are a lot of "us." We include: the Beat poets, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Edgar Allen Poe, and Henry James, just for starters. Oh, and for all you YA fans, even Louisa May Alcott.

Jack Kerouac, Dylan Thomas, and Norman Mailer were devoted patrons of the White Horse Tavern (pic above), a watering hole that is these days more popular with tourists than would be scribes. But that's okay. I don't need the White Horse. I consider myself the *dark* horse as far as keeping up my end of my neighborhood's literary cred.

No, I may not have made my way to that very special bookshelf just yet...but I'm definitely getting closer. Both literally and figuratively.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a legacy to uphold.