In 1973, during a family gathering, I shared my aspirations to become a writer. The response from one aunt, a woman of considerable wartime bravery, was stark: “Nobody marries a female writer.” My own mother echoed this sentiment, suggesting that in her view, female writers were only marginally better than prostitutes. This was the backdrop against which I began to navigate my path towards a writing career.
For years, I grappled with the practicalities of sustaining my writing “habit.” Then, in 1992, I stumbled upon an advertisement seeking an aerobics instructor and personal trainer at World Gym, located near Lincoln Center. Within a year, I had built a thriving personal training business. While waking up at 5:30 AM for twelve years was undeniably arduous, the job provided me with financial independence and, crucially, mental space for my literary passions – Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and the pursuit of a Columbia University education. Personal training, I recognized, was a luxury few could afford.
The dichotomy of working for affluent individuals while my home country was fracturing under civil war was, to say the least, jarring. My time on the treadmill track yielded countless stories. Among the most memorable: two client-friends hosted an extravagant book launch party for me, exceeding the advance I received for my debut novel. Conversely, the most disheartening experience involved an Upper East Side client who dismissed me after my second book deal. Apparently, the notion that someone she perceived as lower in social standing could achieve such success was unacceptable to her, leading to my immediate dismissal.
Today, I reside contentedly in a rent-stabilized apartment on the West Side, dedicating my days to writing. My workspace, overlooking an exposed brick wall and a non-functional fireplace, is compact, even smaller than my grandmother’s modest apartment.
Yet, my love for this city remains unwavering. A friend from my homeland recently remarked that my transformation into a liberated, peace-seeking writer was a result of moving “at New York.” Prepositions, it seems, continue to baffle those accustomed to East European linguistic structures. But no, I insist, with quintessential New York hubris (a prerequisite for citizenship here), I came to New York because I was destined for it. Perhaps, in some whimsical corner of this city, a Pink Pussy Cat toy in a shop window served as an early, subconscious beacon guiding me here, a symbol of the unexpected paths life can take.
Born – Yugoslavia, 1966
Arrived in New York – 1989
Home – Upper West Side
THE NEXT WAVE
Natasha Radojcic is the author of “Homecoming,” a novel. Her autobiographical novel, “You Don’t Have to Live Here,” will be published next year.
