E.B. White, author of the children's classics Charlotte's Web and Stuart Little and the bible for every writer, The Elements of Style, was a wonderfully gifted essayist and editor, spending almost six decades at The New Yorker in one capacity or another. What makes White one of the most treasured American essayists of the twentieth century was his ability to come elegantly to the elemental core of the subject at hand, not just a stereotypical dilution. Not as easy as it may seem, especially when the subject at hand is a city that is a living, breathing entity all its own.

Many writers have tried (and failed) to capture the essence of New York. Here is one of the best definitions I believe I've read, written by White in 1948 (Here Is New York) and still true today.

"There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter — the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York on a quest for something…Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion."

I think the reason it's difficult for most people to put their finger on the soul of New York is because they are one of the three New Yorks, and that is forever how they see it. But Colson Whitehead (The Colossus of New York) says there are roughly eight million New Yorks, one for every person who lives here:

"No matter how long you've been here, you're a New Yorker the first time you say, 'That used to be Munsey's,' or 'That used to be the Tic Toc Lounge.' That before the internet café plugged itself in, you got your shoes resoled in the mom-and-pop operation that used to be there. You are a New Yorker when what was there before is more real and solid than what is here now. You start building your private New York the first time you lay eyes on it.

"I started building my New York on the uptown 1 train. My first city memory is of looking out a subway window as the train erupted from the tunnel on the way to 125th Street and palsied up onto the elevated tracks. It's the early seventies, so everything is filthy. Which means everything is still filthy, because that is my city and I'm sticking to it.

What is my New York? Certainly not the glamorous New York of the Manolo Blahnik-wearing ladies from Sex and the City, nor the salt-of-the-earth New York of the guys who are digging the 2nd Avenue subway line. I'd like it to be the inspired New York — the one that breaks new ground in the creative arts, much like the Bloomsbury Group in early 1900s London, though I guess my novel would have to be published for this to really be my New York. (Hello — any agents reading this?) Sometimes it's the Mary Richards "you're-gonna-make-it-after-all" New York, which makes me feel like throwing my hat in the air in the middle of Sixth Avenue. But right now my life feels like the "it's-up-to-you-New-York" New York, and it's not my favorite New York because that means things are out of my control as if the city itself will decide my fate. And, in case you are new to this blog, control is my middle name.

Maybe that's the lesson the city is trying to teach me. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Even though I feel the tidal restlessness of the commuter, remain passionate like the settler and stay solid like the native.

Or maybe I just need a vacation.

Jacquelin Cangro