My name is Shayleigh Elizabeth Greyson (or, as everyone calls me, Shay) and when I was little, there were three things I wanted to be when I grew up: a princess, a ballerina, and a writer. I was raised in a small southern town, and all I ever wanted was to get out—to the big city, to a place where dreams would always come true. How cliché. But hey, I was young. Youngsters tend to fall for the clichés pretty easily. One storybook and boom, they’re gone; lost to the land of make believe and perfect situations.

            It didn’t take a genius to figure out that, unless I marry up (and I mean way up), there was no chance of me becoming a princess. I was still pretty convinced I was a secret princess until I was about eight or nine, when the naivety of early childhood wore off. But, I have to say, that even to this day I have a certain fascination with royal families and courts, probably more than most individuals. I always say I have a built-in excuse, though, since my name literally means “princess”. I’ve always been just naïve enough to believe in everyday fairytales. I mean, I know that the whole “prince on a white horse” thing is totally outdated, and honestly, I’d want to save myself from the dragon or evil queen anyway. I’m talking about the little happy endings. The ones that make you smile to yourself for the rest of the day. The ones that make life seem simple and light instead of stressful.  

            Year by year I learned that fairy tales and perfect situations weren’t real life. The first epiphany I had was when I was thirteen. I had been enrolled in dance classes for about ten years but was still the worst in my class—not only that, but I was at least a head taller than every other girl in the studio. At the height of 5’6”, I definitely stood out in the eighth grade jazz routine for the recital. That’s also when I realized I was way too tall to dance en pointe without my ankles completely collapsing. This, friends, was the end of my ballerina dream. I knew then that I would never be able to really go anywhere in the dance world—my body type was completely wrong, my feet were terrible, I was heavier than I should have been, and my ankles would never be able to take it. I kept dancing in the studio until the end of high school, but I made sure to stick to jazz, contemporary, and hip-hop so my imperfections weren’t too noticeable. That was ten years ago, and I’m still just as in love with dance as I’ve ever been. I know it’s not a career option for me, but I try to surround myself with it whenever I can.

            In case you weren’t keeping count, this only leaves the third profession: writing. For a long time, I didn’t even see writing as a job—or, let me rephrase that, I focused on reading works instead of writing them. I was that girl who read several books a week in elementary school, when everyone else thought it was lame. I read everything I could get my hands on: mysteries, action stories, romances, plays, scripts, poetry—if there were words on a page, I would read it. I remember reading Romeo and Juliet for the first time when I was a freshman in high school—I was completely emotionally invested. Granted, I knew the ending; after all, I grew up in the generation of Leo DiCaprio as Romeo, there was no way for me to be ignorant. Unlike the rest of the class, though, I was swooning at the language, crying from the emotion, and in awe of the power. But this is nothing compared to the way I felt when I read Pride and Prejudice for the first time. A few years after really discovering Shakespeare, my best friend decided to drag me to a period movie starring our favorite actress. Although I loved her, I wasn’t quite into the flowery language and felt I wouldn’t be able to relate to most of the themes. Little did I know that this movie would lead me to my first creative writing class, my masters in literature, and my career as a fiction writer. Well, my aspiring career as a fiction writer.

            I don’t know if the movie was the reason my life turned out the way it has, but I know that it made me curious enough to read my favorite novel. My favorite novel pushed me to try writing as an outlet after I stopped dancing.  When I wrote my first short story at the age of seventeen, I didn’t realize how much it would shape my life. I didn’t know where I would want to it go as far as a career, hell, I still don’t know where I want it to go. I feel like even after all these years, several degrees, and countless workshops, I’m still as clueless as the ditzy blonde in the senior elective Creative Writing class at Ronald Reagan High School. All I knew was that I needed to keep doing it (and I still do). If I stop writing, you may as well attach an anchor to me and throw me overboard, because I’ll be done (in every aspect of the word).

            So, this semester, as I head to New York City to get a terminal degree in creative writing, I keep thinking of myself as a little girl and how I never would have believed that I would end up here. When I was eleven years old, my family and I visited New York City for the first time—mu cousins grew up on Long Island, and we all flew up there for the eldest cousin’s bat mitzvah. My first glance of the city was through tinted towne car windows, as zoomed down the LIE, through Jamaica to Astoria in Queens, and eventually making it into Manhattan. The car let us out on Madison Avenue, and the four of us walked past some of the most beautiful retail stores I had ever seen. I walked up and down the Upper East Side like I was a mini Blair Waldorf from small town Texas. For the first time, I actually felt like I actually was a princess in my own fairy tale; shopping in the best stores, being with my whole family, taking pictures in front of the World Trade Center and the Statue of Liberty. It really was the perfect day for my eleven-year-old self.

    I've carried the memories of that day with me for the past fourteen years--from middle school to graduate school, it's been in the back of my mind. Once I decided that writing was the career I wanted to pursue, I made it my mission to get back to New York permanently. Of course, this permanent placement took a detour through San Antonio, small town Italy, London, Dublin, Dallas, and Reno. Nothing has ever really been a straight shot for me, so these small details and detours never dissuaded me from my goal. There were mishaps and missteps and misplaced money, but somehow I made it. I got back to the center of everything. 

            I always told my family that I needed to go to New York because of the connections available to aspiring writers (which is true, but not nearly the only reason like they believe). My parents grew up on the east coast, but moved west to Texas as soon as they could (followed by a move to Nevada when I was in college). Because of this, they don't quite understand my passion for New York City. They understand that the writing community in New York is extremely important, but also use the idea of major writing communities to bring up San Francisco (which is only a few hours away from them by car) and supposedly a much better fit for my personality.

    My brother's dislike of New York is stronger than anyone's, though. He lived on Long Island for one absolutely terrible year, followed by a move to Baltimore for a few even worse years. He's not necessarily trying to dissuade me from moving there, but wants me to realize that the city isn't quite as magical as I've always believed it to be.  Every time I would bring up my (impending/eventual) move to NYC, it was met by insincere congratulations and mumbles of "that's great".  

    This isn't to say that they don't support my career choice (or me, for that matter). They do, and they make sure I know and understand that. Which I do. Really. With that being said, my family has always been a really close-knit group of four, and the fact that I'm heading to the other side of the country is a little unnerving to them.  I'm the only girl and the baby of the family, which automatically makes me a target for overprotective family members. The baby girl going to the big bad city to be an artist isn't particularly high on the list of things my parents wanted to happen. Actually, I know what they wanted to happen: for me to go to an Ivy League college, followed possibly by law school or graduate school and a doctoral degree. I mean, I didn't completely let them down on that front--I got one graduate degree and am moving to New York solely for the purpose of another masters. There was no Ivy League or law school, and there probably won't be a doctorate, either. I'm more than happy with my two masters degrees--plenty of money spent opening up few job opportunities but lots and lots of debt. Who wouldn't want that? Okay, strike that question. No wonder my family is worried about me. 

    I can't say I blame them, though. I mean, this is what I've wanted for as long as I can remember, but at the same time, I keep wondering whether or not it's a smart move. I was born and raised in Texas and have only been to the city once or twice. By New York standards, I'm a naïve good girl who grew up trusting anyone and everyone. I'm not completely ignorant to the fact that I'll probably get eaten alive there. That's step one, right? Admitting you have a problem? Well, looks like I'm going to have a problem.

    You know, my brother always told me that being in the city isn't like Sex and the City or Gossip Girl and in the back of my mind I know that--lets be honest, those books and television shows are way too perfect to ever happen in real life. Even though I knew this, it still broke my heart when I realized I would never be able to afford Blair Waldorf's shopping habit on a grad school budget. Hell, I had a hard time getting by on that budget in San Antonio, where things are cheap. I'm probably doomed to live in a five-story walk up in Queens that's more fit to be a closet than a residence forever. That's what they don't always tell you about going into an artistic major: you will most likely be broke for the rest of your life. 

    Of course, we all hope that doesn't happen; that we'll be the one in however many to actually make it big. Our novels will be national best-sellers, we'll be award winners who give "I'd like to thank the Academy" speeches on late night talk shows with blemish-free skin and perfectly coiffed hair. But let's be real here: that probably won't happen. Don't get me wrong, I'd love my life to turn out like that, but as I've said before, my life doesn't usually go the way I plan. I'll most likely end up drowning in student loans with two degrees that are completely impractical, mooching off my brother as I try desperately to write the next great American novel. That's a chance we all take, after all, and honestly, it does add a little bit of charm to the starving and tortured artist persona. 

    I spent about half of my first day in New York thinking about this very possible life path as a starving artist, literally. I should have been excited and taking in every bit of my new home, but for some reason, reality chose that exact moment to come crashing down and remind me that life isn't something I can write and just make happen. That would be the life, wouldn't it? To have a magic journal or word program that makes everything you type come true? But even stories like that have mishaps: the protagonist eventually realizes that he or she shouldn't have messed with life and misses the way everything was before. That's where the "be careful what you wish for" saying always comes into play--after all, if Mary Shelley taught us anything, it's that we shouldn't try to play God or get in over our heads. I think Victor learned that lesson well enough for all of us.

    So instead of dreaming up a magic typewriter, I just had to reevaluate my outlook. I was finally making my dreams come true, even if I would be met with a few failures along the way.  I used the rest of the day to explore--walking around, getting lost so I could find my way. I spent hours passing diners, parks, cemeteries, and apartment buildings that all looked the same--more than once I was sure I would never find the way back to my building and that my feet would actually fall off of my body before I made it home to 34th Street between 31st and Broadway. 

    Somehow I made it back, relatively unscathed minutes before the sunset, Thai takeout in hand and ready to make my little "apartment" feel more like home. The first thing I made sure to do was hang the hand-painted letters, a birthday present from my best friend years ago, spelling out my name above the front door. Followed quickly by crown-shaped key hooks hanging on push-pins next to the door; one for my coat, one for a purse, and one for what they're supposed to store: my keys. I continued hanging every decoration I had, my apartment slowly filling up with shades of gray, gold, and aqua, until every wall held at least three Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond mass produced $20 pictures or personally crafted letters, signs, and postcards. I had yet to get a bookshelf or any sort of real furniture, so my books were stored in stacks strewn around the small living room, congregated in corners, beautifully crafted spines leaned on white walls and faux-wood floors, waiting to be opened. 

    I sat on the edge of a feeble air mattress, Thai container settled in my lap, and looked around at my new life. No television, internet, or furniture; small, plain, and alone, thinking of the other times I started over in various big cities. The difference being that those other times were temporary--studying abroad in Dublin, London, and Florence; a short stint in Dallas for a summer job; San Antonio for college. This time was different; sure, I was attending school again, but in theory this program was going to lead to my life as a novelist in New York. I wasn't supposed to go back to Texas (or anywhere else for that matter). I was going to be a real New Yorker--well, a transplant New Yorker--that still counts, right?

    I opened the fire escape window to the hot humid August air, letting in the sound of the street drift through my home, making it feel less empty, hunkered down on my air mattress with Pride and Prejudice, and spent my first night in New York City traveling through the English countryside with Elizabeth and Darcy.

  The next morning was my first class in the Columbia University MFA program. Before I left Texas, I looked up the distance between my apartment and campus: a nice and quick six miles. What I didn't realize at the time, though, was that six miles in New York was the equivalent of fifty miles in San Antonio. I couldn't believe that it took almost an hour to drive less than ten miles. Luckily, I had left Astoria hours before my class started so I could explore the campus, find all of my classrooms, and buy a few books from the bookstore. I got off the M60, wandered through quads starting at giant brick buildings, watching students and professors scurry off to classes and offices; heads up but eyes unseeing, focusing on phone calls and destinations. It was a mesmerizing sight. If you ever want inspiration or just a way to pass the time, just find a seat near the Butler Library and people watch.

    I attended my first class: a fiction workshop with only seven students. No way to hide behind anonymity here. Well, if I'm going to make a fool of myself, I might as well do it in front of as few people as possible, right? The first thing I noticed was that my mentality wasn't nearly as self-involved and pretentious as everyone else's. I guess that's to be expected when you go to an Ivy League graduate program, though--thrust in with the Blair Waldorf and Sheldon Cooper types of overachievers. I needed to get seriously pompous in a short amount of time to at least pretend to fit in here. Got to fake it 'til you make it, especially in the writing world.

    I made my way back to my neighborhood, settled down in Omnia Cafe, around the corner from my apartment, and got to work on my first fiction assignment. Why is it that whenever you want to be extremely creative and innovative, writer's block comes out of nowhere? That's how i spent the next few hours: drinking espresso and wondering when my potential would come to fruition. I knew I wanted to write an ingenious existential flash fiction that would take all of my ostentatious classmates by storm. Instead, I was haunted by the idea of the stupid magical typewriter scenario I thought of the day before. Because that's the way to gain my peers respect: the little naïve Texas girl writes a cute children's story about a magic typewriter! How avant-garde.  After three hours of sitting at an extremely uncomfortable and cramped wooden table, I decided to just pack it in--I had a week to come up with something and execute it perfectly; sometimes you just can't rush creativity. 

    I wandered back to my apartment to drop off the fifty pounds of creative writing-based books, grabbed the decent amount of cash that my parents handed to me before I left Texas, and headed down to Brooklyn to pick out a few pieces of necessary furniture from Ikea, the 20-something's staple for decorating and furnishing apartments. Two hours and more money than I wish to admit later, I had an actual bed, a small love-seat to be used as a couch, one bookshelf, and a coffee table; no kitchen table or nightstand because, let's face it, those are luxuries that grad students just can't afford. And by "had", I mean I made arrangements to get these items delivered. I'd probably have to put them together myself since the fee to assemble anything was way outside of my budget. But hey, everything's an adventure, right? And if all else fails, at least I can depend on my air mattress. 

    I used the entire forty-five minute ride back to my apartment trying to come up with a groundbreaking story I could write for workshop. The only other idea I came up with was a semi-autobiographical novel about my move from Texas, but there was no way I'd be able to write it within a week. Plus, who would even want to read something like that? Absolutely no one, that's who.

    Later that night, I met an old friend for drinks at the Palace hotel in Manhattan. I knew that a place like the Palace was way out of my price range, but Riley and I had been obsessed with Gossip Girl since we read the whole book series during our senior year of high school--we had to splurge just this once (okay, I had to splurge). We sidled up to two heavy, rosewood stools on the far side of the bar. 

    "So," Riley said, flicking her long plum-colored hair over her left shoulder as she turned to face me. "How do you like the big bad city?" Riley knew the answer to this already--she was one of the people who originally persuaded me to apply to Columbia. Right after graduating from Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Riley was hired at a Public Relations firm in Manhattan as an intern; she moved to the city with two suitcases and a trust fund full of family oil money. 

    "It's not bad" I responded, trying to wave down the bartender to no avail. "I'm just not used to how long it takes to get somewhere. I mean, my school is like six miles from my apartment, but it takes almost an hour to get to class. I honestly think I could walk there faster. And I'd consider it if I didn't have to lug an entire classical library around with me." 

    "Hey, I told you not to live in Queens. I offered up my extra bedroom. You said no." 

    "And I told you that I can't afford to live on the Upper East Side like you do, even just in a room. The rent for that room would clean out my bank account for the rest of the year." Riley and I had this same conversation over and over. It was never hostel, but we both kept trying to convince each other our stance was right. Honestly, we had been having the same argument since sixth grade, when she wanted us to have matching iPods and I had to explain to her that I didn't have enough money to get one (after, of course, my mother had to explain it to me several times). It's been the same ever since, only with different nouns inserted into the blank. 

    "I'm just saying..." she let the end of her sentence peter off as she smiled towards the bartender, resulting in his appearance directly in front of us. I couldn't help but stare at her, mouth agape, as she ordered her extra dry martini with a twist. 

    "And for you, love," the bartender asked with a slight Irish accent as he turned towards me. 

    "May I just have a Jameson and ginger with lime, please?" I responded and turned back to Riley.

   "How the hell did you get his attention like that?" I asked as she checked her iPhone one miscellaneous reason or another. 

    "How the hell did I do what, exactly?" She asked, turning her attention back towards me.

    "I've been trying to get the bartender's attention since we sat down. I did everything short of faking a heart attack and lighting road flares! All you had to do was smile." I laughed, slightly annoyed but mainly in awe. She was always able to do things like that--everything just came a little bit easier to Riley. Growing up, we all accepted it, but every now and then it still caught me off guard, especially since I hadn't been around her for a few years.

    "I don't know what you're talking about. It was probably just a coincidence. Not a big deal." Classic Riley. To this day, I don't know if she's in denial about things like this or if she really doesn't notice. 

    "Please teach me how to just smile and make things happen." I begged (not for the first time during the course of our friendship). 

    Riley just laughed it off as our drinks appeared in front of us.   "But seriously, though," she started, taking a sip of her drink, "you're doing okay adjusting?"

    "Yeah, I'm doing okay. Granted, I've been here for like a day and a half, so not too much has happened, but so far, so good." 

    I could tell what her next question was going to be even before she asked it. Riley had this tell-tale nervous habit where she would purse her lips, slide her eyes to the right, and raise her right hand to adjust a strand of hair. Every time we saw this, it meant some sort of uncomfortable question or statement was coming--she wanted to bring up whatever the subject was, but didn't want to offend anyone by doing so. Sitting at the bar, I watched this habit unfold for the millionth time, knowing exactly what would follow.

    "So," she said slowly, right hand still running through her dark auburn hair, "have you heard from Connor lately? I bet he wasn't happy about your relocation."

    Connor Easton, also known as my ex-fiancé and quite possibly the biggest douche bag I've ever met. Don't get me wrong, he had some potential in the beginning; he was about six foot four, with naturally dark blonde hair and emerald green eye and wanted to be a criminal defense attorney when we first met. Connor always saw everything as a game--he was obsessed with always being the most intelligent person in the room. For some reason, I didn't notice this during our three year relationship; that is, until my friends had a Come to Jesus meeting of sorts and laid it all out for me. Somehow, even my friends who didn't know Connor (like Riley) realized he was a gigantic asshole, and I was completely unaware. Of course, that intervention wasn't the reason we broke up. I've had friends dislike my boyfriend before; it's actually a pretty common occurrence in my life, therefore that alone wasn't enough for me to call it quits. What was enough, though, was him sleeping with Evie Sinclair. More than once. And me hearing about it from Evie herself. I picked a winner, didn't I? Well, at least I knew enough to leave the bastard. 

    "Oh, you have no idea." I responded. "For some reason, he's in complete denial. He was basically stalking me by the time I left. Thank God he hates New York, or he would have followed me out here." I took a second to shake my head and sip my drink. 

    "You never really told me what all happened with that," Riley probed. The last time we talked, I left out more than a few specifics--I was never particularly good at accepting when my friends were right and I was wrong. The curse of the academic: we always think we're right (and most of the time, we are). 

    "Do you remember Evie Sinclair?" I asked, ready to admit defeat.

    "That bottle blonde with the bad spray tan who always thought she was your best friend?" (Leave it to Riley to be blunt).

    "Yep, that's her." I nodded and took another swig of Jameson.

    "What about her? Oh my God, she isn't trying to be you again, is she? Because that shit was just plain creepy." I couldn't help but snicker at Riley's delivery. She was honest to a fault when talking about anyone but herself. 

    "No. Connor was having an affair with her. And apparently everyone knew but me." I nodded and looked down into my glass, more as an act of embarrassment than longing for what I once had. For someone who prided herself on being so observant, I could be really fucking ignorant.

    "NO SHIT." Riley exclaimed, earning looks from around the crowded bar which she brushed off. "Wow, Connor really is a grade A douche, isn't he?"

    "No argument here, sister." I said as we both finished our drinks.

    "Well," Riley began, "what do you say, one more round? I mean, we really haven't spent enough time together to make up for the past few years. Plus, the bartender keeps checking you out." 

    This resulted in a laugh and a shake of my head. "Riles, I'm not going home with some guy I've never even spoken to"

    "Um, actually, you did speak to him."

    "I ordered a drink, that's not talking to him. I know nothing about him and, honestly, I just got into the city like forty-eight hours ago. I know people change when they come here, but that's just ridiculous. I'm good with just hanging out. And maybe getting some appetizers. And possibly crashing in your penthouse because, seriously, my apartment is a shit-hole. I don't even have furniture."

    "I knew it!" Riley exclaimed, jumping up and down on her stool with a bright smile spreading on her face. "I knew you'd come live with me. I mean, come on."

    "Hey, I never said that. I said crashing there. As in, for a night. Or until I get my furniture. Whichever comes first."

    "Yeah, sure." Riley nodded, rolling her eyes. "In the meantime, lets get some snacks over here. Maybe the cute bartender will accidentally end up with your number, too." She let the last part of the sentence mumble out of her mouth, muffled by her hand as she turned her head and waved to the bartender.

    "Don't even think about it." I said, glaring at her profile.

    "Oh come on, why not have a little bit of fun, huh? New city, no fiancé, no overprotective circle of family and friends. Just me, your lovable, direct, and slightly wild Riley Monroe. Here to remind you to have fun and go a little crazy every now and then. I mean, even if you go overboard, I'm in PR, I can help your image before you become the next Janet Evanovich. No problem."

    I couldn't help but laugh and shake my head. "I'm not here to get into trouble or go crazy. I'm here to write."

    "Yeah, well, don't they say that you should write what you know? And right now all you know is Texas, a jackass of an ex-fiancé, and how to live in a closet. You need to branch out, sister."

    "This is going to end badly, isn't it?" I said as our second drinks were delivered.

    Riley just shrugged her shoulders and started up a conversation with the bartender.