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"The train forces you to concentrate - there's nothing but you and the paper," I jot in my notebook. My usual train rides happened only once every other week or so, and tended to rev me up because of the unaccustomed stimulation. Plus, I was getting tired, the noise and the stimulation wearing me down. This train had more comfortable seats but more passengers, too. I opted for Waldwick, and soon I was riding and writing again.
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She didn't even blink, advising me either to ride all the way to Suffern, where the train turned around, or to switch at Waldwick. I'd decided I wanted to venture up the Bergen line for my next trip, and asked the ticket agent where I could go, get off the train, and five minutes later hop a train back to Hoboken. I treated myself to a walk around the lovely old Hoboken terminal, buying a delicious panini and eating it on one of the high-backed wooden benches. Do you have to, I wondered, choose between your own happiness and the happiness of your children?īreak time. If I wanted to eat, I could get a sandwich at the Hoboken station.Īt 1:20, I finished my first column, and by 2, when the second leg of my trip ended at Hoboken, I'd scrawled through 17 pages of my notebook and was in the middle of a second story, this one on how most people move to the suburbs for the sake of their kids. But the purpose of this trip was to ride the train and work. I'd packed some food, but my stomach started grumbling as the train chugged through towns like Morris Plains, Summit and Short Hills, all clustered around attractive villages where I could theoretically get out, stretch my legs and have a proper lunch.
#Muse at midtown free
A train trip affords a sense of time expanding before you, free of e-mail, laundry and the refrigerator, but for a period with an absolute deadline. It encourages your mind to range, retrieving memories and accessing ideas. The train offers a perfect blend of stability and variety, I decided, of comfort and movement.
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Why was I able to see them most clearly here, removed from the world they theoretically inhabit, speeding away from my desk, my computer, my books, my notes? Several of my writer friends say they have similar experiences on the train, finding a sense of communion with the imaginary realm that doesn't happen at our homes and offices. And I thought about my characters: Stella, the single mom resisting everything suburban Mary Jean, who longs to be a Cheever-style suburbanite Cameron, the enthusiastic Suburbanista who doesn't quite fit the stereotype because she is black. Where is the line, I wrote, between flirtation and an affair, between cheating in your heart and maintaining technical fidelity? Out the window of the train flew by vistas I never get to see from anywhere but the train: cottages clustered in thick woods, heavy machinery parked in a storage yard, brooks darting beneath trash-strewn banks. At least no one was yakking on a cellphone, and soon I entered my meditative zone, pen flying across paper. I was disappointed to find I'd be spending what was supposed to be my first hour of contemplation on a lumpy seat that afforded no opportunity to stretch out. At 10:08 a.m., I set out on the first post-rush train away from the city, changing at Montclair State for Mount Olive, the literal end of my line.
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