fiction & caffeine

The second to last time I was at the beach, I walked into the water to cool down. It was on the other side of the roped-off lifeguard-protected area, so I moved carefully in, fearing the embarrassment of being whistled at and gestured out. About fifty feet into the harbor was when I could keep my head above water with only my toes touching the sand. I stayed there, in the brown harbor, looking at the streaks of clouds in the sky and mansions dotting the hill to the north (they obviously make me think about The Great Gatsby; I’d rather not think about The Great Gatsby). It felt like I’d crossed some threshold into perfection, or like maybe I’d died. My heart started to beat too fast, so I dunked myself and scurried out onto my towel, picked my book back up, let the sun tan my back half.

Sometimes I consider how I get most of my joy from ancient things—stories, water, the sun, yoga. Sometimes I sit at my desk and consider that.

Short and strange are how
I like my books, probably
Because I am too

As I was walking from the bathroom to what I want to call the merch table at Instituto Cervantes before the Best European Fiction 2011 panel during the PEN World Voices Festival this year, I looked up and made eye contact with Aleksandar Hemon and made a face he mocks in a story in Love and Obstacles. The words on the page flashed in my mind, the description of how when an American unexpectedly catches the eyes of another, their eyebrows arch and their lips form a tight smile. Months earlier, I’d been walking down an empty section of West Broadway when I saw Junot Díaz coming in the other direction. Instead of just ignoring his presence and keeping on my way, I looked straight at him and summoned a ridiculous open-mouthed smile that I’d never made before and haven’t made since.

“At around ten in the morning I go to a nearby café with a notebook and a pen (I have a huge collection of fountain pens from all the famous brands, and I’m always buying strange or elegant notebooks) and order an espresso. I write for a while, never more than an hour, and I never end up with more than a page. Back at home I type it up and then print it. That’s it. I dedicate the rest of the day to reading, watching films at home, meeting up with friends or riding my bike.” –Aira in an excellent interview with Kill Your Darlings.

The first thing I remember writing was a short poem about death in a sticker book. It worried my mother, who came over to me while I was about to fall asleep in my top bunk and asked if it was how I really felt. I shrugged and we didn’t talk about it again. For the most part, I’ve always hidden my writing (my real writing) from everyone. I never talk about it. I’ve only recently become comfortable with the idea of other people reading it.

I was thinking about this because I’ve been reading poetry for the past two days, one person’s first four collections. I’m going to review them, and I’m in way over my head. It’s been years since I’ve read poetry, and that was eighteenth-century British poetry under the direction of a Jesuit priest. He implored us to look every word up in the OED, insisted every line break and punctuation point was performing a necessary function. That kind of reading excites the hell out of me (ask me about my burgeoning theories regarding Bolaño’s use of parentheses!). This poetry isn’t like that. It’s good, though, and I’m moved by it.

When did I stop writing poetry? I can’t remember. I wrote incessantly through elementary and middle school. In high school, I pretended they were song lyrics to, I suppose, avoid any embarrassment. In college, I wrote some while having crying jags in Penn Station or on LIRR trains (nervous episodes inspired either by being overworked or being convinced a terrorist attack was imminent). But when I write these days, either in my head or on paper, it never takes a poetic shape.

Maybe I’ll revisit some old notebooks, watch my old obsession Poetic Justice. Maybe I’ll have a nervous episode and verse will return to me. Maybe it’s something I just can’t do while working a real job. I guess for now I’ll try to concentrate on this review.

My name is Alicia. I’m a copy editor and occasional writer. Fiction is my focus, and caffeine is my drug of choice—hence the title. Other concerns: yoga, baking, food in general, movies, and music. I’ll be prone to posting about all those things. The specifics will become more clear as we go forward. First posts are a pain in the ass.