{"id":6825,"date":"2010-11-02T00:01:48","date_gmt":"2010-11-02T04:01:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=6825"},"modified":"2010-11-02T12:44:25","modified_gmt":"2010-11-02T16:44:25","slug":"all-my-real-estate-agents-have-always-been-writers","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2010\/11\/02\/all-my-real-estate-agents-have-always-been-writers\/","title":{"rendered":"All My Real Estate Agents Have Always Been Writers"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Patchin Place, off 10th Street at Sixth Avenue, where e. e. cummings once lived. Photograph by Berenice Abbott. <\/p><\/div>\n

Some writers learn by practicing their craft alone in their rooms, some by a mentorship with a beloved teacher, some by M.F.A. committee. I have always tried to learn by osmosis: by placing myself in the physical location of genius, on the off chance that some greater force clinging to the chandelier would attach itself to me and give my writing a cosmic boost. Though I did spend many nights in my early twenties at the Cedar Tavern (where there was certainly some cosmic mojo to be had), the easiest path to absorbed genius always seemed like the real estate section of the newspaper.<\/p>\n

I found my first apartment a couple of months after graduating from college\u2014a studio on Perry Street, at the curious point in the West Village when 4th Street finds itself between 10th and 11th Streets. Though I knew the neighborhood a bit from my own teenage explorations, there was one simple reason I wanted to move to Perry Street. Ted Berrigan, one of my favorite poets at the time, wrote this in 1963: <\/p>\n

I think I was thinking when I was
\nahead I\u2019d be somewhere like Perry Street erudite
\ndazzling slim and badly loved
\ncontemplating my new book of poems
\nto be printed in simple type on old brown paper
\nfeminine marvelous and tough. <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Feminine, marvelous, and tough. I wanted it tattooed on my forehead. Never mind that in 2002 a pair of Marc Jacobs stores sat around the corner from Perry Street, and I was too intimidated by the salespeople to walk into either of them. I was tough and feminine and absolutely convinced that living on Perry Street would make my writing more wild, which it did: I wrote a long, messy novel that took Wuthering Heights<\/em> and put it in my high school. There was incest, in a sexy way, like Flowers in the Attic<\/em>. I forced my boyfriend to paint the entire room a shocking shade of pink and shoved my tiny desk against the oven, which was good for two reasons: The first was that I never used the oven, not once, and the second was that an entire family of mice soon took up residence inside the oven\u2019s walls. <\/p>\n

My second apartment was on Patchin Place, the half-block-long Mews off 10th Street at Sixth Avenue, directly across from the Jefferson Market Library. A crumbling metal gate blocks the street from traffic, and though the gate is never locked, there are always tourists standing outside, peering in. Of the ten row houses, only #4 is still intact as a single-family house, and was e. e. cummings\u2019s home for forty years. I lived in the second to last house on the left side of the street, just before the still-functioning gas lamp. My neighbors were an elderly couple who argued on the front steps (one memorable fight centered on the fact that the husband had taken the subway all the way to the airport before realizing he\u2019d left his wife behind) and a woman who watched daytime TV at the loudest volume possible. Slightly more glamorous former residents of Patchin Place included Djuna Barnes, Theodore Drieser, and Marlon Brando. After I\u2019d been there six months, my best friend moved into the other apartment on my floor, and together we lived in a sitcom without the laugh track, with hot water that wouldn\u2019t run simultaneously in two different faucets and hallways that smelled like cigar smoke. I wrote mysteries in bed and had dinner parties in the overgrown shared garden, imagining a poetic spirit laughing along with me and my friends\u2014always in lowercase letters, all of us smoking and drinking and listening to music when the lights went out. In the end, it was a combination of vermin and love that drove me away, because not even the promise of a poetic life in a garret can override the revulsion at finding a cockroach on your neck in the middle of the night, and because splitting the rent with my boyfriend seemed at least twice as romantic.<\/p>\n

When we packed up for graduate school in Wisconsin, I read Wallace Stegner\u2019s Crossing to Safety<\/em> in anticipation. It was fiction; it was serious. I was ready to give the steady life a go. The characters Larry and Sally moved to an apartment on Morrison Street, and we did, too. I suppose we would have discovered the beauties of Madison\u2014the lakes, the sunsets, the affection that grows with isolation\u2014without Stegner\u2019s help, but he certainly helped us locate those things in the early days. It was in Madison that I became dedicated to sentences as much as to plot, to revision as much as to that first heady rush of composition. There were writers around every corner, but they were all snowed in to their houses, working. I put on layers of woolly clothing and did the same. In the novel, Stegner writes,<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t you think of this place as an opportunity? Don\u2019t you feel it the way we do, how young and promising it is, and how much there is to be done, and given, and taught, and learned? … We\u2019re determined to give it our absolute best. Before we’re all done with it, let\u2019s make Madison a place of pilgrimage! <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Why the city of Madison has yet to print that on a T-shirt, or on the side of the Capitol building, is completely beyond me. <\/p>\n

We left Madison to return to New York and found a 1910 limestone in a neighborhood close to Prospect Park but miles from anyone we knew, in a corner of Brooklyn far from Lethem and Lahiri, from Ames and Egan. There are writers in the neighborhood, ones I know by name, but they aren\u2019t famous. There are no plaques. I have yet to find a poem with the name of my street in its lines. In my most grandiose moments, I hope that my house is the first one with a plaque, but more often I savor the fact that, for the first time, I\u2019m living on streets not already codified in someone else\u2019s language, at least in no publication I\u2019ve found. Is it possible to discover new corners of a city so well-documented in literature? There are two ninety-year-old women on my block, and I\u2019m sure the stories they could tell me would contain volumes of poetry, and several novels to boot. Maybe it\u2019s just that I need to listen to their cadences and caesuras, their homemade villanelles. <\/p>\n

And so, yes, it wasn\u2019t Perry Street that made Ted Berrigan, it was Ted Berrigan that made Perry Street. Without him, Perry would be the same to me as Charles or Jane or even Leroy. But I imagine that my peculiar psychosis is the same reason people go to Andalusia and look for peacocks: It\u2019s the hope that some tiny bit of magic is still clinging to their feathers and that, if plucked, that feather will offer an epiphany. I hear they sell pieces of dirt in the gift shop; perhaps it\u2019s time for a road trip. Some habits are hard to break. <\/p>\n

Emma Straub<\/a>\u2019s short story collection,<\/em> Other People We Married, will be published in February 2011.<\/em> <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Some writers learn by practicing their craft alone in their rooms, some by a mentorship with a beloved teacher, some by M.F.A. committee. I have always tried to learn by osmosis: by placing myself in the physical location of genius, on the off chance that some greater force clinging to the chandelier would attach itself […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":76,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[1180,958,1184,125,1181,1179,1183,1185,1182,157],"class_list":["post-6825","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-apartments","tag-brooklyn","tag-e-e-cummings","tag-new-york-city","tag-perry-street","tag-real-estate","tag-ted-berrigan","tag-wallace-stegner","tag-west-village","tag-writers"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nAll My Real Estate Agents Have Always Been Writers by Emma Straub<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"November 2, 2010 \u2013 Some writers learn by practicing their craft alone in their rooms, some by a mentorship with a beloved teacher, some by M.F.A. committee. 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