"She said, 'Don't I know you from the cinematographer's party?'"

It’s been one year and nine months since I drove the sixteen hours from Milwaukee to New York City with Mr. Baxter the Cat by my side. I surprised a whole lot of people back home when I initially announced those intentions. Some openly wondered if I was trying to channel Carrie Bradshaw, as if making this move meant flitting around 6th Avenue in $400 pumps. But anyone who really knew me realized that such an accusation was completely absurd.

Moving to New York had nothing to do with chasing the glamorous life. (If you could see my current get up which includes yoga pants, holey socks, and a hoodie that’s seen much better days, you’d understand). However, I must admit that I do enjoy the fact that at almost every social event I attend, I meet people in the most fascinating fields. Actors, photographers, publicists, writers, directors, designers, painters, web developers, film makers, composers, playwrights…it is so common in this town that I’m waiting for the day that it no longer thrills me. It certainly doesn’t surprise me anymore when I hear, “Oh, yes, I did wardrobe for Kate and Leo!” or “I worked with Glenn Close on that set!”

Yet, as a writer, it is surreal for me to be connected at all with this cohort of people who are putting their blood, sweat, and tears into major projects. Up until recently, I doubted that I could put myself even near this category of artist types. Yes, I write but I have no ridiculously cool projects being produced/recorded/edited/shipped to Asia. I still felt very much on the fringe. I'm obviously not a 5th Avenue shopping, cosmopolitan sipping, banker lovin’ type. I am most definitely not cool enough to join the tattoo sporting, chain smoking, pint swilling’ artist crowd either.

With my identity as a social worker long gone, I didn’t know how I fit in anywhere. And as of today, June 30, I am one step further away from my social working days. My license as an Advanced Practice Social Worker in the state of Wisconsin officially has officially expired. This means that if I ever want to go back to social work and my employer demands licensure, I will have to go through the whole grueling process of re-taking that damn test. I am okay with making this transition but it does make it more confusing when I think, so where do I fit in anymore? Such a lack of connection is jolting.

However, this sense of disorientation came to an end recently when a fellow writer friend and I were chatting over coffee. She mentioned that she was so broke waiting for freelance gigs that she was sustaining herself on peanut butter sandwiches and oatmeal. It occurred to me that peanut butter and oatmeal were my staples, too. And the ex-social working, non-Bradshaw wannabe within realized that I was no longer on the fringe because there it was…an invitation to group membership. I was officially a “starving artist”. And for some reason, that made me smile.