I used this as a writing sample for an internship application but I kind of like it so here you go:
Chelsea Market: August 2013
Have you ever had one of
those moments in life that made you feel like you were doing the right thing?
Like the soggy puzzle pieces of your life had finally, somehow fit together and
created something more beautiful than you had originally expected.
Probably the closest
thing I’ve had to a defining moment happened this summer. It was a sunny,
sweaty Friday in New York City. I had trekked all the way to the crowded
Chelsea Market just to find an empty seat in an air conditioned building. Sure
enough, others had the same idea so it was packed. So packed, in fact, that
there wasn’t much of a difference in temperature once stepping inside.
Nearly every seat was
taken and seeing as I am too much of an introvert to ask if I can share a table
with anyone, I ended up sitting on what looked like a bench. I later realized
that it was a piece of artwork- carefully crafted and molded to sit in the
famous Chelsea Market, to be photographed and stared at for the polite amount
of time. I had been sitting on it reading, internally complaining about how its
uneven surface was digging into my tailbone and making my butt fall asleep. I’ve
never claimed to be an artist.
I sat on it reading for
nearly 3 hours. People came and went: ate a danish next to me, took a picture
sitting on it. I smiled politely at first, but after a while I started to focus
on my book. At about the 2 hour mark, I had a roughly 28-year-old man sitting
next to me. I noticed he was holding a very professional looking camera and
snapping pictures every so often. I couldn’t tell you how long he was sitting
there before he asked, “What’re you reading, if you don’t mind me asking?”
First
thing you have to know about me is: I normally hate being disrupted when I’m
reading, especially by someone who is just making conversation. But maybe I was
having a really great day, or had gotten enough sleep the night before, because
I wasn’t at all annoyed by his question. He seemed genuinely curious. We
exchanged a few words, I explained what the book was about, and just before he
left he said, “Sorry to bother you, I’ve just never seen someone so engrossed
in reading in such a busy place before.” And that was it: the stars aligned,
the lights flickered, whatever other clichés you want to come up with. This was
the first time in my life I had ever had a complete stranger make such a
spot-on judgment of me. The way I see it, if my passion for books is apparent
to that man in Chelsea Market, then maybe it’s what I’m meant to do. Maybe it
means nothing, but for a moment, it felt like it did.
