This should be easier than it is.
I stare at my computer screen, watch the mouse blink, waiting for me to type. The Word document is blank in front of me. Waiting.
My mind is even blanker than the untouched document.
I sigh and shove off of the computer, stalk over to the window. Look down the eleven stories and watch the pinpricks of people hurry through the blustery winds, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks and hats squashed down over their eyes. From my window, they look like ants, scurrying to and from their homes and offices and the grocery store.
I shiver and pull the violet drapes over the wintry sky, shutting out the world and going back to my computer.
Still, there is nothing to write about.
The cursor blinks, taunting and teasing my vacant mind.
I mutter to myself about the pros and cons of going out into the brutally cold wilderness that is New York City, in search of something, anything to write about, and then impulsively grab my jacket and my ratty mittens off of the hook in the kitchen, locking my front door behind me. I leave the word document up, hopeful that maybe, when I return, my book will have written itself.
I stand in the elevator, watching the numbers slowly ticking down to the beat of the soft music in the background, until I reach the first floor and the doors slide open with a metallic swish, revealing the familiar lobby, decorated in golds and greens and reds for the holidays.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” the doorman says, tipping his hat at me with a wink. “How's the book coming?”
Anderson has been the doorman for as long as I've lived on the eleventh floor, since I was a little girl, even before my parents died in the plane crash. He is loved by everyone in our building, with his cane and doorman's uniform, always ready to chat and bring a smile to one's face with his terrible jokes. He has become my family, gradually poking his way into my life until I could not imagine it without him.
“I don't have a thing to write about.”
He holds the door open for me with a sweet smile, one that makes his brilliant blue eyes crinkle up and sparkle deliciously. “Perhaps a walk will clear your head.”
“Or give me hypothermia.”
I button up my lavender pea coat against the icy winds, but they still manage to invade and crawl up and down my arms and stomach, sending shivers throughout my entire body. Even my favorite mittens, the ones that I have trusted to protect my hands from the worst winter days that New York has to offer, provide little warmth.
I slip into the throngs of people hustling down the streets in brightly colored jackets, heads hunched low, and find myself wondering if, circling in their busy minds, one of them holds my story. Maybe one of them could give me an idea, the plot line that will finally get me that evasive paycheck. I have been playing hide-and-seek with it for far too long, losing every time.
A homeless man is curled against the side of my building, huddled in his shabby brown coat. Black hair falls down in dreadlocks, obscuring his face from view as he fiddles with something in his gloved hands. From years of living in New York City, I know not to approach him, but my heart still aches for how he has no place to go, nowhere to hide from the cold.
A particularly cold gust of wind hits me square in the face, reminding me to keep moving and mind my own business. I pick up my pace and hail a taxi, climbing into the worn back seat with a soft sigh at the warmth that the heater brings.
If I had to guess, I would say that the taxi driver is Middle Eastern, around the same age that my father should be. He wears a stocking cap and a limp jean jacket to protect against the cold, the tips of his fingers peeking out from his gloves.
My driver offers me a nod in greeting and asks me where I am headed, to which I reply, “Can you just drive around?”
He nods again, as if it isn't an unusual request, and takes off, swerving in and out of the traffic like the crazed taxi driver that he is. His cab smells like cigarettes, mints, and something spicy, but it isn't a bad combination. Accompanied by the soft crooning of a woman on the radio, it's almost relaxing.
We glide past Central Park and Carnegie Hall, places that I've driven by and been to thousands of times in my life. One or two brave souls push baby carriages through the park and the occasional dog runs after a Frisbee, but there aren't many that are daring enough to face the cold head on.
Snow begins to fall as I ask him to take me back to my apartment building. I pay and thank him before stepping out into the harsh cold again and trotting inside, where Anderson opens the door for me.
“That was fast,” he comments.
I shrug, rubbing my hands together to try to get the feeling back. “I still don't know what to write about.”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Really?”
I shake my head, failure creeping up my throat. How can it really be this difficult? Writing has been in my family for generations. How is it possible that I am having such a terrible time coming up with something to write about?
“Perhaps you should take a look around you,” he says with a knowing smile. “You can write about me. Write about the time that I was in that bank a few blocks down and it got held up. Write about the time that I ran the Boston Marathon, back when I was young and my knees were good.”
I smile, remembering the time that he showed me pictures of that day, years ago. They were black and white, but a younger Anderson was unmistakable as he grinned at the camera, a confident arm wrapped around his future wife.
“Or,” he continues, abandoning his duties to talk, “you could write about the lawyer climbing into the elevator as we speak. I'm sure he's had his difficulties getting such an important job at that law firm down the road.
“Then, there's always Christopher—I'm sure you saw him when you were out there—who lost his home last month after his wife needed to have treatment for cancer. He would provide a very interesting story for you, my dear,” he finishes.
And then, I know what to write about.