Wanderlust

In April I went to a bar with the terrible name Ozone on the 188th floor of the Ritz-Carlton in Hong Kong. We were so high up that the broad deck was enveloped in mist, but when it cleared you could see the city far below like a map made of lights, twinkling with promises and secrets. We talked about the recent Hong Kong election, which had been, as Nelvin put it, a choice between a candidate who was only semi-close to Beijing and one who was more explicitly Politburo-friendly.

Sunday will mark 15 years since Britain handed Hong Kong back to China. Back then, everyone wondered what the city would become like. Residents left in droves. Some of them, like young Nelvin, came back. But everyone still wonders what China will do to this town. Will Hong Kong retain its frenetic polyglot charm, its unusual mix of chaos and disorder? Will it remain as magically itself as, say, New Orleans? Will it become more like China, or the other way around?

I broke away from the boys, who went out for late-night duck, and went back to our room at the Y, handing the cab driver a piece of paper with the address written on it in Chinese. Our room was only on the 19th floor, but I still felt high-up, staring at Kowloon verticality across the way. I took this picture out the window.

…little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do -

determined to save

the only life you could save.

-from the poem “The Journey” by Mary Oliver, in her 1986 collection “Dream Work.”

I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn’t long before I actually wasn’t afraid.

—From “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed.

So I was strolling through Brooklyn Heights yesterday when I came across this woman selling her novel from a makeshift “novelade” stand. And giving away a free homemade cookie with every copy. Work it, baby! I had to buy one out of sheer respect. I’ve never had the nerve to do something like this, but I think it’s awesome. Even better than the woman at my yoga studio who carries around copies of her books to sell to other students.

This author’s name is Jennifer Miller and the novel is “The Year of the Gadfly.” It’s set in a prep school and carries a blurb from Gary Shteyngart that references “Portnoy’s Complaint.” It’s published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. I would hire Miller as my publicist if she weren’t busy writing novels.

Buy “The Year of the Gadfly.” Buy “Wanderlust.” Buy your friend’s/relative’s/neighbor’s latest. Heck, just buy a book, any book, today.

I’m greatly enjoying James Wolcott’s “Lucking Out: my life getting down and semi-dirty in seventies New York,” not least for the writing advice. From sifting through the Village Voice slush pile, he learns:

Avoid parody, which slides too easily into facetiousness. Avoid political satire, which has the shelf life of a sneeze. Avoid preamble—flip the on switch in the first sentence. Find a focal point for your nervous energy, assume a forward offensive stance and drive to the finish line, even if it’s only a five hundred word slot: no matter how short a piece there has to be a sense of momentum and travel, rather than just allotted space being texted-in.