When the private turns public

I've been thinking a lot about life in the public eye. I watch celebrities and public figures from all walks of life every day, from the CEO of the world's biggest computer company to the bombshell actress who is still rockin' it out at 65.

Many have drive, some luck and looks, and still others, simple genius that would not be granted obscurity. The latter seems to be the case for the subject of the latest book I'm reading: John Kennedy Toole. If you haven't heard of him, you're not alone. I had no idea what he was about, but the synopsis for "Butterfly in the Typewriter: The Tragic Life of John Kennedy Toole and the Remarkable Story of 'A Confederacy of Dunces'" certainly got me interested in him.

Toole was a pretty extraordinary academic who, depressed with the editing of his writing career gives up on a novel, and eventually commits suicide. His mom finds his manuscript in a box, pushes someone to read it and eventually publish it. The book became a Pulitzer Prize winner.

While reading of this man's early achievements and ongoing struggles with identity, the reader always has the knowledge that overshadows it all: He's going to kill himself.

I'm currently in a section in which Toole decides to go to New York City's Columbia University and discovers it's not the idealized place he'd visited as a tourist. It's a cold, unforgiving place for the outspoken southerner.

I don't associate with the suicidal stuff -so don't call me asking me if I do - but I do associate with Toole's feelings about New York in contrast to his hometown and conflict about achievement and what it means to a person. This city has a way of sapping your will to buy toilet paper and garlic, so how do you find the sliver of strength to start another documentary? (I'm really trying to be OK with chilling out and slowly moving forward with my next project.)

Toole eventually went back to Louisiana. I'm staying in New York, so I guess I'll have to deal with these distractions and sometimes soul-sapping conditions - and just frickin' produce something. Warning: It may not be a Pulitzer.

So here I am. I don't want to be a celebrity, but I do want to be more of a producer than a constant consumer. (Do you realize, really, how much you consume? I keep my receipts and by the end of the month, there's a pile that won't stay 'stuck' to my bulletin board.)

And I don't want to hide my work in diaries tucked away in my bureau anymore. So I'm back. My previous blog, Girl Meets World, is officially defunct. This is where I - and all the thoughts that escape the confines of a subway car - will now live.

It's a big step to come back into the public eye, especially at a time when there's so much to lose. But I'll have my rules. I hope what I can filter out from behind those restrictions will keep you, dear reader(s), coming back for a little more CityGab.

Finding my running legs

My earliest memory of competitive athletics includes my mother sitting in the grass beside a bubbling blacktop track, kneading her calves and picking at enormous blisters on her feet. She'd done a walk-a-thon, raising money for a cause that I think included Jesus. She completed nearly 20 miles. And then she was in pain for Jesus.

And now I will be in pain for a friend. I'm planning to run a 5K this November with a friend in New York's Central Park. I'm not really a runner. I have a body that has stayed pretty much one hulking shape since age 16 that can only be toned, not reduced. And this arse is pretty heavy to carry around, particularly when you're trying to haul your it over a finish line. 

But I shouldn't be complaining. It's kind of an easy run compared to the torture my boyfriend has signed up for the following day - the New York City Marathon. (Donate here.) Yeah. He's been training for months and I've been running with him on his "recovery" days. Yeah. I'm that lazy.

And I've come pretty far, actually. I began running only when urged. I'd crunched my knee on a particularly crowded ski slope in Pennsylvania and thought I'd never walk again, much less run. But here I am. I'm still a 10-minute mile, but it's not so pathetic anymore. I can run a 5K.

Really, though, my heart is in the pool. I've always secretly wanted to swim the English Channel a la "Dangerous When Wet":

But maybe I should leave that to Esther Williams...I'll just buy swimsuits that look like hers. And run 5Ks.