The Center for Fiction
Lost wallet/perfect bookstore
I’ve decided—and don’t quote me on this in case I give up—that I want to visit every independent bookstore in New York City as named by this list and write about the experience of being there. It could take weeks—it could take years! The fun is in the not-knowing.
Last Saturday, Scott and I saw Sorry, Baby (amazing) at Brooklyn Academy of Music; on Sunday, I discovered that I’d lost my wallet. Within 20 minutes, I had decided that it was gone forever: immediately cancelled all my cards, started researching (and panicking about) how to get a new driver’s license. Would I have to take the driver’s test in New York now? “You haven’t even really looked for it,” Scott reminded me.
So I went back to check BAM’s theater, where a very kind man helped me scan row by row with a flashlight. Between visiting BAM and walking (!) our biking route back to Queens, scanning under cars and among trash piles for my wallet, I visited The Center for Fiction. My wallet is definitely gone–no doubt about that now!--but the whole thing was worth it for The Center for Fiction.
This bookstore is my fantasy of a bookstore. The selection was unlike any bookstore I’ve been in recently: tons of works in translation, and not just relegated to a corner of the store, either, but integrated with mainstream offerings. No splashy, viral, BookTok table; no table of romance or romantasy. (I read and love romance and romantasy, by the way, but it’s visually uninteresting when every bookstore has a huge, prominent table stacked with books that all look like The Knight and the Moth. Also, it feels like pandering–I’d prefer if a bookstore recommended books that challenged me or introduced me to something new, rather than regurgitating BookTok trends.) Just amazing, surprising, diverse fiction.
When I’m in a firsthand bookstore, I’m usually primarily interested in building out my To Be Read list from their curations. I do this by taking quick photos of the books I’m interested in. I took about 15 photos of books here before I reined myself in. And the cafe! Don’t even get me started on the cafe: a stage at one end; books lining the walls. No one bothered me when I sat for 10 minutes to write without buying anything. Clean and well-lit. Heaven, in other words.
I was also intrigued when I read about their membership structure. If you join The Center for Fiction as a member, you get access to their second floor, which houses a work space, their library (!) of books to borrow, and their “terrace.” Also, if you’re a member, you get discounts on books and access to special events. If I lived closer, I would make this store my whole personality. I wish I lived in this bookstore. When I die, bury my body in The Center for Fiction. No notes. Perfect.
Omg no! Not the wallet!