Chapter Text
What is it about this city that seems to just get me?
What is it that makes it feel so foreign, yet so familiar all at once?
And why, despite all of that, have I still not written a single word since I landed here?
My thoughts race in time with the pace of my feet as I stride down the beautifully chaotic streets of midtown Manhattan. This is by no means my first encounter with New York City - but I’d only ever been one of its millions of visitors until now. I’ve lived here barely ten days yet and I’m still wandering around like a wide-eyed tourist, but in my head, I already feel like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be…
With a clear destination in mind, I find my way through Bryant Park, meandering through the hordes of fellow tourists in the direction of the New York Public Library’s main branch. The building towers above me in all its architecturally stunning glory and I briefly stop to admire it; in the late winter sun, the marble facade practically glimmers. But it’s also unseasonably and unreasonably cold out - so without further ado, I rush inside in a flurry of my winter coat and my bookstore tote.
I know exactly where I’m headed: to a reading room at the back of the building, one of the few quiet places I can find enough peace to think, and hopefully enough inspiration to write too. But as I fly down the halls of this institution past walls lined with stunning art and intricate architecture, when I finally arrive at my usual spot, the towering oak double doors are… closed.
Closed? Excuse me?
I won’t stand for that. I walked fourteen blocks in the cold, after all! So, deciding to risk some casual trespassing, I nudge one of the unlocked doors open and peer into the room.
Very quickly, I realise I am evidently somewhere I shouldn’t be. Happening inside is what looks like a closed lecture - rows of chairs are neatly lined up in the middle of the hall, each one occupied by an attentive listener, with a narrow aisle leading to a small raised podium at the front of the space, where a discussion is taking place. I quietly close the door behind me and hang back behind the last row of seats.
My gaze falls upon the two speakers, seated on armchairs atop the podium. One appears to be a moderator, a young woman in a smart pencil dress, sat up straight, reading questions off a handful of cue cards. Opposite her is a man, probably in his late thirties if I had to guess, leaning back comfortably in his seat and looking over at her like she’s the most important person on the planet in this moment. Lightly tanned skin, bright brown eyes, and he’s dressed smart in a pale grey linen suit with a sky blue button-up shirt; he sits far more casually with one leg crossed over the other knee, appearing entirely at ease despite the apparent formality of the event.
He’s midway through a sentence when I begin to listen. “…and that’s what you can’t forget - as a songwriter, you’re considering every possible facet. You’re a playwright, you’re an actor, you know things about that character and you’ve got to find the best possible way to convey that knowledge to your audience…”
The first thing that strikes me is the magnetic aura he has about him. When he sits up to answer a question, he commands the room with his confidence, holding every single member of his audience to rapt attention, and his voice carries as much musicality as his words carry lyricism. It doesn’t hurt that he’s rather handsome too… His deep brown eyes hold a hopeful, kind sparkle and his charming smile could easily light up the room. He looks vaguely familiar, but I struggle to place where I might’ve seen him before…
As he speaks, he absentmindedly runs his left hand through his neatly styled, short dark hair, leaving it a little messy, making him seem a little more real. He sports a well-groomed goatee and a light dusting of stubble graces his cheeks, and when the moderator relays him a particularly long-winded question, he subtly bites his bottom lip as he nods and listens intently to her. It’s a completely innocuous move, but I know I would melt at the sight were I in her place.
The moderator’s voice brings me out of my thoughts as she finally ends her preamble with a question for him. “If you could describe your process in just three words, what would they be?”
He looks thoughtful for a moment, genuinely considering his answer. “I guess it’s… Well, I need more words for that!” he jokes, but proceeds to count them off on his fingers, taking a short pause after each one. “In three, it’s research… empathy… and honesty. That’s the most of it.”
“Interesting, I’m sure we’d all love if you could tell us more. What does that look like, creating brilliance?” the moderator asks, sounding genuinely interested.
He looks glad to have been asked to elaborate. He uncrosses his legs, leaning forward as he answers, “Look, that’s the first thing you have to drop. It’s not some kinda ‘Mozart making a masterpiece’ montage!” He waves a dismissive hand, and I laugh along with the audience. He continues, “It mostly comes from carving out the space to daydream and letting my thoughts wander - once I have that, I will literally grab a pen and start writing anywhere. Some of my best ideas happen while I’m walking my dog, or doing laundry, or midway through rehearsals… Hell, I’ve left parties to chase down ideas and I don’t regret it! When inspiration strikes, you've really just got to ride the wave and follow it where it needs you to go. Even if that does end with you shedding tears into a voice memo in a corner at your bodega because that was where it hit you.”
So he’s intelligent, witty, and gorgeous… Well. I decide to stay and listen a while.
“Hmm, I guess we could summarise that into, just don’t throw away your shot,” the moderator jokes. That earns her a laugh from him; he lets out an unabashed chuckle that echoes in the room. The audience laugh along with him and even I crack a smile - though I only vaguely get the reference, his laugh is rather infectious.
As the discussion progresses, I can’t help but feel like I ended up here for a reason. He’s talking about writing and inspiration in general, seemingly discussing a historical adaptation project of his own; I find his outlook on it strangely enlightening. It’s like he’s pinpointing the exact feelings I’ve always felt, but never quite had the words to describe… Ironic, I know, but what can you do?
He’s incredibly animated when he speaks, all fast speech and waving hands and enthusiasm flowing from him in waves; this is someone who loves what he does and enjoys talking about it, and it shows. It’s like there’s nowhere else he would rather be, which is hard to believe, but heartening nevertheless. I make a mental note to look him up later and try to tie what he’s said to what he’s done - even if that does cut into my own writing time. It’s research, right?
Distracting as he is, I tune back in when the moderator poses another question. “So, going back to everything you’ve done in the last few years, that has made us cry buckets. What’s the secret sauce to it?”
He thinks on it for a moment, before launching into an incredibly eloquent answer. “It’s really about writing something that feels honest, y’know? I’m just trying to understand and stay true to what that character feels in that specific moment, and finding the best possible way to capture what they want to say, whether it’s through a lyric, or theoretically through musical form and motifs, or both of those things combined. At its heart, it’s just the truth. So that’s the real secret; well, the truth plus a few tears in the recipe.”
He chuckles lightly at the end of that and the audience follow suit, but it hits home. Of course - as writers, isn’t that what we’re all chasing? Aren’t we all exploring those deep inner truths by way of the characters we create, leading to saying the quiet part loud?
Standing here, listening to him, I’m gripped by the urge to get my notebook out and start writing immediately. Something, anything, just to write, just to arrive at some degree of truth - but more than that, I also just want to keep listening to him. The soothing quality of his voice and the inspiring nature of his speech have me hooked, and I quickly realise I might like to listen to him talk forever.
Now, now, the little voice in my head chides, forever is rather a long time.
Well, forever is not a word I use lightly. But I know what I mean when I say it.
Though his words compel me to leave the room to go somewhere quieter to write, I end up finding an empty seat and staying until the end of the discussion, holding onto my thoughts and hoping they don’t elude me when I do finally get a moment to gather them.
“Thank you, Lin, for joining us today,” the moderator says, bringing the conversation to a close, “What an honour to be in the room where this happens, am I right?”
The audience break out into cheers of appreciation and agreement, as he gives her a heart-melting smile. “The pleasure was all mine,” he says sincerely, placing a hand over his chest. If I were the type, I’d certainly be swooning.
The moderator isn’t immune to his charms either, and she’s still blushing when she addresses the audience, “I know we all wish we could talk about Lin’s masterpiece of a musical forever, but unfortunately that’s all we have time for today. I hope to see you all at our next panel discussion with the creative team of New York, New York as part of our ongoing Broadway program…”
“I don’t know about you guys, but I’ll be back for that one. We’re in previews right now, go check it out if you can and I’ll see you at the panel!” Lin gives the audience a quick little wave, and after a brief round of applause, the crowd begins to disperse from around me.
I figure it can’t hurt to scrawl a few notes before my ideas completely evaporate from my mind, so I whip my notebook out of my tote and begin to do exactly that as I wait for the room to clear up.
Time must’ve evaded me, however, because I’m startled back into reality by a gentle tap on my shoulder. In my moment of shock, my fountain pen lands on the tiled flooring and the nib snaps in an explosion of ink that splatters onto my white sneakers, and onto the brown leather brogues of the stranger who’s just had the misfortune of catching me off-guard.
“I am so sorry, I—” I look up, straight into a pair of warm brown eyes, not intimidating in the slightest. It’s him… I try not to seem too flustered. “The ink’s water-based, I don’t think it’ll stain — I have a napkin in here somewhere—” I fumble around my bag as Lin retrieves my pen from the floor, staining his own fingers with blue-black ink in the process.
“No, I’m sorry for causing this,” he says sincerely, “I owe you a new pen.”
The thought hadn’t even occurred to me that my lucky Jane Austen collectible Onoto pen is now a broken wreck, but it does upset me a little. I manage to dig up a napkin and sheepishly offer it to Lin, finally daring to meet his gaze as I accept the pen from his ink-stained hand and toss it into my tote to get repaired eventually. He takes the napkin and plops down into the empty chair beside me, and I notice for the first time that we’re the only two people left in the room.
“I’m sorry about your shoes,” I apologise, looking over at him as he attempts to rub the ink out of the leather, only making it worse.
“Oh, don’t worry, I didn’t like them that much anyway,” he jokes, waving a dismissive hand, “High fashion, huh?” He laughs, and there’s that heartwarming smile again…
I don’t dare tell him I quite like how those shoes look on him, and laugh along with him instead. It’s… nice. The kind of liberating, free nice I haven’t felt in a while…
“Hmm. Can we call it even, then?” I reason with him lightly, and he nods.
He has this air of effortless charm about him, and I struggle to locate exactly where it comes from - whether he genuinely doesn’t worry about what anyone else thinks of him, or whether this is a calculated attempt to make it seem like he doesn’t care. “We’re even,” he says coolly. “If I may ask… what were you writing?” He sounds genuinely curious, not at all the pretentious intellectual sort that I’d usually run into in these places who would judge my writing before they’d even read it.
“It’s just… A little drabble piece, I don’t know yet. Your whole thing up there,” I gesture to the stage and back to him, “I found it inspiring, and… I walked in here by accident, but then you just made me want to go and write. That’s honestly the best way I can word it.”
Lin looks surprised for a moment, before he seems to gather himself. “Oh, well, that’s… the highest honour I could imagine. Thank you.”
I nod, as if to say, of course. “Well, to command a room the way you just did… to know so much about so much, to hold an audience like that… you’ve gotta be somebody important, something special. So… who are you, genius?”
“What?” he asks incredulously, until it dawns upon him that I genuinely don’t know. So, humble as anything, he introduces himself. “Lin-Manuel Miranda. Writer, composer, lyricist, actor, director… I do a bunch of stuff. Nice to meet you!” Flashing a million-watt smile, he holds out a hand, offering a handshake. I oblige; he’s firm in it, self-assured, like he’s done this a million times before. Perhaps he has.
Wait a second… I’m pretty sure he can see the cogs turning inside my head as I piece together everything he’s said so far, the name, the vaguely familiar face, until it finally hits me.
“Oh, crap. Yes, of course,” I accidentally say out loud, even more mortified knowing that I’ve completely embarrassed myself in front of our generation’s answer to Shakespeare. “Sorry. It’s great to meet you too, I just realised… Didn’t recognise you without the…”
“The hair? Yeah, I didn’t either, for a few days,” he jokes, taking it in his stride. I’m glad, it makes my slip-up slightly less embarrassing. “But after this incredibly self-indulgent interview, I’m sure you’ve heard enough about me. Who are you, fountain-pen-wielding litterateur?”
“Well…” I hesitate, but he’s listening intently for my response, so I begin with telling him my name and the fact that I’m new to the city. Simple, safe information. Who am I, though? I’d rather not ponder such existential questions.
Lin gives me a knowing nod. “Figured you weren’t from around here. Welcome!”
“Damn, do I stick out that bad?”
“Nah, you have a bit of an accent on you. It’s really nice, just not New York is all.” He puts a level of teasing emphasis on that last part, sounding very New York himself, and I crack a small smile at his remark.
“Oh. Thank you, I guess?” I feel the heat rise to my cheeks; my accent isn’t one that often garners compliments. It’s nothing special, and yet he already has me charmed…
“Hey, all due credit. So what brings you to the greatest city in the world?”
“Second greatest city in the world, mind you!”
“I respectfully disagree, but go on.”
When Lin looks at me as though he’s actually interested in what I have to say, I continue, “I’m a novelist. It still feels pretty novel to call myself that, actually.” He smiles, warm, encouraging me to go on. “Here after a book tour for my debut, looking for inspiration for my second one… You probably know what that feels like.”
“That’s awesome, congratulations! But you’re right, I do. The follow-up’s always harder than your first, it’s when people start expecting something from you. Thinking they know what you’re gonna do, where you’re gonna go… You know what, though?”
“What? Please, impart me with your wisdom, kind sir,” I joke, making him chuckle.
“Mmkay,” he hums, “See, the way to break the sophomore curse is to do something nobody expects you to do. Totally blow ‘em out of the water, y’know?”
“You might be right. Until my unexpected wild idea ends up flopping, that is.”
“There’s always a risk. You could try and replicate your success, or you could dare to do something better…”
“Fuck, as if you hadn’t already inspired me enough!” I admonish him in a light tone, and Lin laughs at my feeble attempt to scold him. But some force about him compels me to be honest and tell him more. “That’s the thing, though - with the first, it was no pressure, I could do whatever I wanted. But now I have something to live up to, and it’s scary…”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a little scared,” he says slowly, as though he’s letting me in on some big secret, “It’s about perspective. Do the thing that scares you and channel that fear into the work… That’s how you grow. As a writer, as a person… You know how it is.”
I nod slowly as he speaks, trying to absorb his advice. It’s pretty sound, if I’m honest. “I guess that makes sense… Thank you for the great advice, Lin.”
“Anytime,” he says with a genuine smile, rising to his feet. Instinctively, I do the same, though I’m not sure why I follow his lead. “I’ve gotta run, but it was great to meet you!”
Great feels like an understatement; enchanting is what I want to call it, but perhaps the jukebox in the back of my hopelessly romantic mind needs to tone itself down.
Instead, I offer him a bright smile in return. “Likewise. I owe you an acknowledgement if this book ever makes it to the finish line!”
Lin chuckles, and the grin on his face is absolutely priceless. Hell, that might be about to get me into some trouble… “Hey, it totally will. Don’t you worry about thanking me, go make it happen!” He claps me on the shoulder, an encouraging gesture that immediately makes me feel comforted.
“I will. Oh, and good luck with your show! Or, y’know, break a leg…” I make a mental note to source a ticket to the show in question, suddenly intrigued.
“Thank you!” he says, nothing short of beaming. One last sparkle in those beautiful brown eyes before he’s off in a flash, practically leaving a cloud of glittering joy in his wake.
And now apparently, I have some writing to do…