When my story, Fusion, first appeared in The Westchester Review, I never expected to find the vibrant local literary community that this magazine pulls together. Like many writers, most of my writing life is spent alone with my notebooks and my laptop behind the closed door of a paper-filled office. But during The Westchester Review readings, I had the opportunity to watch the expressions on real faces as I introduced my short story to a crowded room. I had the privilege of meeting a woman who shared her own story of recovery with me, just as powerful as the tale I told in Fusion. I met writers at all different points of their careers, those who had published time and time again, and those like me, who were just starting to get their names out there.
In a world that is frequently vast, nameless, and existing mostly in cyberspace, we often lose the ability to shake the hands of the people we’re trying to reach. Last week, in the warmth of the timeless reading room at the Warner Library in Tarrytown, I had a glimpse of a different era before the Internet and Kindles, where people heard their stories directly from each other.