Brooklyn is known for all the writers who live here: You can find them frowning at their laptops in their neighborhood cafes, donning their noise-canceling headphones to block out the clamor of the only other comparably populous group–children under five. As luck would have it, my Brooklyn lies at the intersection of these two sets of scribblers.
Before I moved here three years ago, I was worried I wouldn’t be cool enough for Brooklyn. As it turns out, I’m not–and that’s fine. Brooklyn–with its milliners, its mustaches, its small-batch cupcakes for dogs–might even be tiring of its own hipness.
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