In his article in The Chronicle of Higher Education covering the Association of Writers and Writing Programs conference, Michael Dirda wonders whether New York is still the city of dreams for young American writers.

The rain was slashing down when my train from Washington pulled into New York. Outside Penn Station, the line at the taxi stand was long, and, with little else to do for the next 20 minutes, I found myself thinking about all those young writers who, year after year, had come to this city of dreams, some bringing with them nothing but their ambition, others already clutching the manuscript for a novel, a play, or a book of poems. Here a few had found great or moderate success — and most none whatsoever. Yet even as the disillusioned gradually drifted home to Nebraska or Indiana, the next generation of hopefuls was already stepping off the bus at Port Authority and looking around at the city they would surely conquer with their pens.