My New York City talks to me all the time, whispers in my ear, keeps me grounded, thrills me, makes the improbable seem possible, is my constant lover. My New York City is Manhattan.

Manhattan is a metropolis of shrieking glass and steel and concrete, and at the same time, quiet neighborhoods of brown stone and brick.

Approaching New York from New Jersey, the skyline appears suddenly like the Land of Oz. The eyes tear and a lump forms in the throat. So beautiful, every sense stirs. Flying in over my city at night makes my heart beat faster.

I write about Wall Street, where in the 17th Century there really was a wall to protect the inhabitants from the Indians, and the English. It didn't work. Wall Street has come to mean the area where mostly men in pinstripes play ... with money, and where women don't get the key to the executive bathroom.

I write about Broadway, also an area, a place like Wall Street, full of passion and driven by gigantic egos. Once Broadway was a tawdry, glitzy spot, less commercial than flamboyant. Now it is rapidly becoming Disney sanitized, its personality compromised, a giant Mickey Mouse blocking the marquee of a landmark theatre.

I stand at the deli counter in Zabar's (a famous West Side Jewish style gourmet emporium) clutching my number. To my left is the knish counter, manned by a young Hispanic man. A Japanese couple stands in front of the counter staring at the variety of knishes. Finally, the Japanese man says, "What is that? Something like bread?" The Hispanic clerk responds, "Yeah, something like that." Hey, it's what we New Yorkers call "A New York moment." New York is full of moments. In my Smith and Wetzon mysteries, New York is truly a character. Leslie Wetzon loves the city as much as I do. Is there a more beautiful Park in the world than Central Park, where the lilacs bloom in profusion in the spring and all year round there are joggers, cyclists, and rollerbladers (including a tiny, ancient woman who flies with the young and restless on her own blades)? I don't think so.

My city is a very funny character filled with very funny characters. Although we are a walking city, the subway (722 miles of track) is the pulsing life blood of New York. It is performance art. It is the great leveler. And what a source for a writer: the natives, the conversations, the costumes, the setting.

I love winter in New York with the north wind rattling windows and whipping air conditioners, which remain in place because no one has storage room. Space is a premium and hard to come by even if you can pay for it. My friend Linda Ray (read Laura Lee Day) once commented that square footage is the secret to a successful relationship. That is, if you happen to live in Manhattan.

Fresh snow makes the city a sparkling wonderland. A couple of days later, fuhgeddaboudit.

Spring in New York and the snow has melted from the top of my air-conditioned, and guess what, the birds are back and they're singing. My windows on 10th floor face uptown and I look out over the rooftops of dozens of brownstones, a Parisian view. With the windows open, I hear the soft murmur of voices drifting up from the decks of the brownstones and the clicking sounds of spoons stirring cream and sugar into coffee mugs. Yes, it's that quiet.

Summer heat softens the asphalt under our feet. Tempers are short. The neighborhood cafes haul out their sidewalk tables, and restaurants on the Upper West Side (my neighborhood) are packed for breakfast, brunch, lunch, for dinner, for drinks, every day and night of the week. You may wonder, where do all these people come from? They live here. We are actors, writers, musicians, directors, producers, editors. On this side of town, it is okay to leave your apartment without makeup and wearing sweats. You won't see that many pinstripes here. Most of us work at home.

And I never leave town on a holiday weekend. This is the best time in New York. The city empties out and only the true believers stay. No lines at movies, or at Zabar's or Fairway; museums are not crowded, and you can get a reservation at almost any restaurant.

In the fall, we get serious. The theatre season begins. The Jewish holidays mean summer is finished. Store your cottons (we don't wear synthetics here) and bring out the true New York woman's favorite color: black. On a chilly, overcast fall day, the foghorns remind us we're an island. We lie between two bodies of water called the East River and the Hudson. Neither is actually a river. They are both estuaries. But that's okay, this is New York. Here there are no earthquakes, no forest fires, no floods, no mudslides.

I was born in Manhattan, but I grew up on a chicken farm in New Jersey. I love living in an apartment. I don't like grass. I've mowed more than my share of lawns with a hand mower. If I ever had to live in a house, I would cement the lawn and paint it green.

When I'm away from my city for too long, I lose my focus. The spring goes out of my step. The city is my inspiration. I need the energy that is ozone in our air. I love the brown stones and the bricks, the steel and glass, the stone canyons and the irrepressible volume of my city. I love concrete. I love New York.