Months ago I read an article in the New Yorker - I believe it was the New Yorker though really it could have been any New York publication - about this strange exodus of artists from New York. Specifically, I think it was a review or breakdown of this book called "Goodbye to All That: Writers on Loving and Leaving New York"
The piece effectively talked about this weird phenomenon where all of these writers, for one reason or another, decided to up and leave New York behind. The title of the book comes from a personal essay written by Joan Didion in 1967 called "Goodbye to all That" where she talks about her love of New York and the captivating ways it allures the artfully minded. But it also a sad tale of leaving this place once believed magical.
I don't know al the writers in the collection of essays. I'd say I probably don't even know one of them. But the summary of the book champions the idea that "each writer’s goodbye to New York is singular and universal, like New York itself."
It probably is. I know it feels that way for me. I grew up in NYC. Born and raised in the center of the planet. For the most part, it was a good time growing up, a good place to grow up. There were bad times, certainly, but nobody goes without those.
I always felt tied to New York. It has given me life and a place to live it. A place that it ultimately unlike most others. I fell in and out and in love all over again in New York. I had all of my big firsts in New York. I made many of my best friends in New York
Now my newest first is leaving my childhood home for a new future and new frontiers, on a new coast.
I don't know what I'm really looking for for the rest of my life. I know I'm 23 and have, basically, the whole world in front of me. I know there's a lot to do going forward.
I'm excited for it. I'm happy.
It's a new adventure in my life. So Hobey ho, let's go.