Search History #1: Carrie

In our newest column, our Copy Editor Carliann Rittman writes blog posts based on her Internet search history. It features everything from Wikipedia to The New York Times, from WebMD to Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 Singles From The Year Simone de Beauvoir Died (a Google search she is still proud of). Ray Bradbury once said of his inspirations: “A conglomerate heap of trash, that’s what I am. But it burns with a high flame.” Welcome to Search History.



From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia



It matters that “Carrie’s” real name is Carietta. It must. It also matters that her mother is “widowed.” It also matters that Carrie is introduced before her mother. You might otherwise get confused as to who the main character is. Its Carrie. Carietta. Etta. Ette. As an English suffix, –ette, forms diminutives (kitchenette; novelette; sermonette), distinctively feminine nouns.


I am putting this here because it might not be obvious otherwise. The Widowed Mother is Christian. But, like, very Christian. Christian enough that repeated threats of damnation are worse and more primary than physical abuse.


And speaking of physical abuse and damnation, one day, Carrie gets her period. Its while she’s showering, though, because otherwise that might be gross and at least she’s in a semi sanitary environment. No one talks about what Carrie looks like except for blood or that really popular and chic image of Sissy Spacek in the silk dress on prom (prom!) (again, covered in blood) so I’m not going to either because really she’s just frumpy and not noticeable even though you’re meant to notice pretty much only her.


Essentially stupidity and oblivion flow out of her more dramatically than anything else you can imagine, stupid girl, and then really ironically at the same time a bunch of weird shit starts happening like light bulbs (!) start breaking and an outset of blood equals an onset of power (ooh, interesting, yeah?) and she realizes not only can she bleed but she’s also telepathic.


Also please remember this is coming from Wikipedia which doesn’t have a gender so that perspective as to the story is being told by really doesn’t matter, it’s you and it’s me (speaking of which, donate here!).


I mean really, there’s more, but is there? There is an invisible explanation of the rest of the plot above but it’s invisible because you’d likely have skipped it anyways plus haven’t you heard it before? Something about a prom and a popular girl and a date as a joke and rape and young death and infamous horror, also this book originally came out in 1974, you know that right, the fact that you’re on this page might do weird things to your google ad optimization but I know, Let it bleed, it’s like they said like Courtney Love got tattooed on her that’s what it all comes down to right let it bleed. She bleeds all over you and all over me and all over all of us and now here we all are, covered in pig’s blood, dead and wishing someone had just taught her mom that God isn’t real and taught Carrie what a period is.


Sticks and Stones and Something About Words, by Su Young

When you told me, “You’ll love it there,” I didn’t believe you, though I have come to find that you are nearly always right. I didn’t notice that you never said “we” or “I,” but back then I didn’t notice a lot of things I should have.

To be honest, I can’t remember it clearly, the day your life was reduced to a little carry-on that trailed behind us. It was the day you grabbed my little hand and steered me away from your life so we could start mine. I can imagine what happened though, from the scene that repeated each year after short trips back home. By home I mean your home, as I think you liked to believe it was not fully mine. You wanted me to find a home away from the bustling city, where overpopulation made everything a fight: a fight for the best grade, job, house, parking spot, or even the last seat in the little subway trains that snaked beneath and between the towering blocks of concrete. I’m thinking you wanted me to have a childhood, and expose myself to an environment where I could choose to be anything, or nothing, rather than enter the frenzy of forced learning evident in a small country caught between China and Japan and under pressure to prosper. Or maybe I’m being too analytical, and maybe you yourself wanted an escape (from what?). But you never wanted anything for yourself, so I don’t know.

What I am trying to say is that you probably walked though the gate without ever looking back, while I waved and cried enough for the both of us. You didn’t cry because you didn’t want to add to the wet chaos. You would have been the picture of bravery as you led me away and I asked why we had to leave Daddy behind and you said he was working to make this all possible for us, and I didn’t understand you because I was a soon-to-be seven-year-old who couldn’t quite grasp the concept of self-sacrifice. You probably smiled down at me as we left the country of your birth, childhood, adolescence, marriage, family, culture, and language. I probably scowled back.

I can tell you what I do remember though, once we arrived in the city of sails and the land of the long white cloud — Aotearoa, say it with me, don’t you love the way it sounds like skipping stones before it escapes your tongue? I remember the blue, blue sky, which I only now realize hangs a lot closer to earth than in any other place I’ve been to, as if eager to meet its reflection in the sea. I remember the smell of salt or chlorinated pool water, never quite washed away because I always begged to go swimming and you never refused me anything even though you always warned me about catching a cold. I remember the slow car rides along empty roads and past low-lying houses that were so different from the apartment complexes I was used to. You used to wake me up in the morning and I would sit in the car half-asleep as you practiced driving on the wrong side of the road.

A ten-minute drive in any direction led us to a beach, and it was the most magical thing in the world because the only time I had seen a real beach before then was after a five-hour battle through traffic. I remember the empty beaches, except on those especially sunny weekends that everyone spent like vacations, stretching the warm lazy afternoons to eternity before dragging their grass-stained bodies home, dreading work or school or life that was to begin again. Sometimes though, you drove me to the beach after school and I stood in the sand, alone. All that reminded me that I wasn’t on some lost island all by myself were the footprints in the sand and then your call, from far away, where you also stood lonely facing the waves.

I remember the Pohutukawa trees that lined these beaches and I remember seeing the spiky red flowers that were nestled in the leaves like Christmas bulbs for the first time. I remember our first Christmas in the middle of summer and thinking this was the place of fairytales where anything could happen; Santa came dressed in a singlet and wellies. Dad wasn’t there to bring out the hidden presents and organize them in the dark, like that one time I caught him but never mentioned. You still bought a little Christmas tree. I still received my presents. I remember how we had a garden for the first time and I used to run barefooted in the soft grass and I would bike and dig for endless afternoons as the memory of piano lessons and workbooks faded away, back across the ocean to that other place.

I could go on about what I remember, and I want to because now that I’ve left the place I’m scared of forgetting and I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget bushwalking and climbing trees and spotting native birds and trying to copy their distinct calls. The rounds of hide-and-go-seek in the trees where every trunk was a place to hide behind and the rope swing behind my best friend’s house tied to a plum tree and the blue striped hammock you bought me one summer—why does it feel like it was always summer? —that I put up myself and lay in for no more than a few minutes at a time because I never liked being still. The little cliff on Marine Parade where I used to jump from, straight into the rising waves, and the array of cuts and bruises I would collect by the end of the day that I wore proudly like badges. I want to remember all of these things.

You see, I remember paradise. You remember it differently.

You probably remember the first day of school as you pulled away my fingers that were wrapped in the bunched fabric of your skirt. You remember me shaking my head as you gently asked if I was excited for the first day of school, and then wondering how I would survive not knowing a word of English. I remember you with my new teacher as an expression of annoyance briefly crossed her face when she realized I was more work because I couldn’t speak the language, and you struggling to hide your embarrassment as you tried to gesture towards me and told the teacher, “P-please… be good.” You probably remember how you felt as you drove back in an unfamiliar car along an unfamiliar road to an unfamiliar home, so you could wait there until you could pick me up from school. You probably remember dropping me off to a friend’s house and returning home so you could press a phone to your ear and tell your friends back in your real home how yes, it was wonderful here, the people were so nice, they smiled and said hello on the streets and you were so grateful I was settling in well. You probably remember what you felt as you put on a Korean mixed tape in the car stereo and how I would surprise you and open the car door and catch you listening to old sad songs, which you would turn off so I could tell you about my day.

I don’t remember this because I wasn’t there for you, but you probably remember the day you were sitting in the car, waiting for me. You were always waiting for me. You were probably listening to old Korean songs again, reminding yourself of past fantasies about handsome singers when you had been young and foolish and full of dreams like you wanted me to be. There would have been a knock on the glass and you would have opened your eyes. A group of teenage boys would have met your gaze and your heart would have dropped as there was another sharp knocking sound and the pebble rolled down the front of the windscreen. You probably can’t remember the series of unfamiliar English words they shouted at you as they threw their stones because you simply did not understand them, and I would like to say it was better you did not understand but it hurts more to think you couldn’t even tell what they were saying about you, other than the few words that caught your ear, “Asian,” and “go back,” as if you didn’t want to go back and as if you didn’t cry behind closed doors where I would stand listening to your muffled sobs. You probably imagined getting out of the car and scaring the little boys away with all the Korean swear words you knew but instead, you drove away trembling and parked elsewhere. The car was fine. You must have wiped your tears, realized I would be coming to find you when school was over, and put on a smile like you always do, which is why I didn’t know.

I’m sorry I don’t remember this, that I don’t remember what you felt as you watched my life go by just the way you wanted, happy, because you never told me. You never told me how it felt to lie and tell me—when I was slighted for my foreign face, so like yours, when the other kids wouldn’t let me play teacher and only the student because I sounded different, when I was told I shouldn’t write because it wasn’t my language to write in and because I had a strange name and when I asked you if that was true —that the world was accepting and we were welcome here, that we were welcome wherever we wanted to go and I could do whatever I liked. You never told me how you were scorned like a child and how alone you felt and how I would be the only person you talked to for days because no one else understood you there. You never told me how you felt when I had to translate for you. When your blush betrayed your calm silence. I don’t blame you, and knowing you I wouldn’t be surprised if you were simply grateful I hadn’t been there in the car and grateful that ultimately, I did love it there like you promised me I would. You are always so grateful for the silliest things, when it’s not you who should be. I think maybe I knew without you telling me, but I didn’t want to and that’s why when you mentioned going back I would throw a tantrum and you would pretend it was just a passing thought. You couldn’t even stay mad at me and how selfish I was because I was all you had.

The sunlight filled the windows of our empty house and you crouched by your open suitcase, heaving your small shoulders—you seemed to have shrunk since the last time you had to pack the remains of your life away. We sat where our couch once stood, where the dents in the carpet had yet to fade away, trying to comprehend that we would never return again and that finally, years and years later, you could return home from your voluntary exile. You suddenly turned to me and told me about that one afternoon, the car, the boys, and the stones. I remember that you finally cried, and I finally, finally, cried with you.

Catfishing Ourselves to Death, by Audrey

It was January and cold and the beginning of my last semester of college. To avoid these conditions, I holed up in my room and watched MTV’s reality television show “Catfish” until it was February and cold and I, underprepared, desiccating, had only three folders for five syllabi. Then I left my room. I began seeing catfish everywhere. I fell in love with the idea of a bird. This is Audrey’s story. Dun-dun-dun.

“Catfish’s” ultimate challenge is, I believe, creating action out of physical inaction. Most of catfishing takes place in a dimension closed off to video cameras, but Nev and Max—the two hosts of “Catfish”—really try to physicalize the experience. And how they try. Each episode of “Catfish” involves at least one plane ride, four car trips, a pillow fight in a hotel room, a fumble for a cellphone, a high five/fist pump, a hug, and a detour to a local coffeeshop. Nev knocks on doors. Nev dances. Max stands up. Max sits down. Throughout, the two men walk around so much so that Max holds both a steadycam and a digital camera to capture the extra action.

This is how it goes: a person falls in love with a person—an image of a person, really—on a social media platform; then, the person goes AWOL or haywire. The catfished, concerned, sends an email to MTV’s Nev and Max, who fly out to meet the catfished, get the backstory, then, armed with info, leave for a hotel room. Then comes the most exciting part: they open a web browser. They investigate. They Google. They scour multiple social platforms for the catfish, contacting the people digitally surrounding the catfish, calling and messaging them until the catfish finally emerges, mythological, mysterious, after the ad break.

“Catfish” shows, step by step, the painful transition from expectation to reality mediated by screens. It’s in its seventh season now, and for good reason: watching the destruction of a person’s reality never really grows old. There is no same way a person’s reality is destroyed. “It’s like a movie, but real,” said a man confronting his catfish, both of them suddenly pushed out into the cruel, loveless world of a park in Cleveland. (Season 6 Episode 18: Nicole & Nicole). Once the hygienic pixels are replaced with a sweaty palm, we are supposed to feel relieved that this façade has been peeled away. I nod at the screen—good for you, Nicole! We are thankful, proud, happy. We are better now. Clearer-eyed. We won’t be fooled again. I watched all available episodes of “Catfish” and searched desperately for a similar feeling of digital rebirth. I discovered livestreams.

Livestreams prove that it is possible to live under constant surveillance. It proves that there is such a thing as a life broadcasted 24/7; it also proves that there is an audience 24/7 to watch it. I found an ornithology channel. I watched livestreams of birds because a screen showing a live bird in another country somehow felt like a better confirmation of my existence than the pigeons in Washington Square Park. I liked the one of the Panama Fruit Feeder the best. The Panama Fruit Feeder is dark-feathered, with a long beak. It looks like a toucan. It’s quite adorable. I also liked the greenery of the livestream, which the Cornell Lab Bird Cam describes as “2,000 ft above sea level in the low mountains of Cerro Gaital, with a mild springtime climate year-round.” On the sixth floor of the library, I would sit by a window and trade glances between West 3rd Street and the greenery of a forest 2,000 ft. above sea level. But, strangely, I have never seen the Panama Fruit Feeder itself.

I checked in at odd hours. Sometimes the screen was dark; sometimes the forest was empty; sometimes, at night, I’d see a large rat-looking creature scrounging through leaves. I still never saw the bird, but that was fine because the Panama Fruit Feeder was there, somewhere, even out of sight, because the title of the livestream—”Panama Fruit Feeder Cam at Canopy Lodge”—guaranteed its existence. I waited. I watched the dark screen. The rodent’s eyes glowed and I ignored the ick in my stomach: was I being catfished by a bird?

The 24-hour streams, like the catfish, exist and grow because voyeurism is the byproduct of a fixated gaze. We may not like or believe in what we’re watching but it’s there, it’s rouses, and nothing marks a Huxleyan better than a livestream of an empty forest. It could be a video on loop and I would not know. In the end, I don’t know if it would have even mattered. More important was that a video of the Panama Fruit Feeder was available at any hour with the promise of a bird. I sometimes feel a little bad about watching or wanting to see the bird. But I refresh the tab. I watch a remorseless catfish laugh to himself and think that maybe he understands, better than any of us, what this is all about. (Season 5, Episode 13: Lucas & Many).

Piecemeal Departure, by Chelsea Cheng

lethargy / don’t tell me what / wine-drenched smile / i can (will? must?) save you / half-emptied heart / “god is dead” / 8am cassette tapes / time travel in summer rain / i can’t and i can’t / sky high exhibitions / apology not accepted / the clock pulls me out / keep me in that goddamn swamp / or else
 in the palm of your motherfucking hand / sorry for the inconvenience / lie down and sink / blue sunset / bourbon / what’s in a name? / don’t listen to the midnight podcast / you your yours / crawl back (in)to her / this train will not stop here / and so
a ghost is dancing on your shriveled tongue

DEADLINE EXTENDED until Friday, Dec. 22!

2017 Cover copy 2You’re in luck! West 10th, NYU’s undergraduate creative writing journal, is now accepting submissions for its 2017-2018 issue until December 22, 2017. We figured you were all so busy with finals that it cut down on your editing time, so we’ve got you covered! Perfect those pieces, add the last finishing touches, and send them over! Let the world see what you’ve been working on all semester.

Ready to submit now? Check out the submissions guidelines on our website. We can’t wait to read your work.

An etymology of hunger, by Carliann

There is a corner of the internet in which people post videos of themselves eating as many calories as they possibly can. They call it the 10,000 calorie challenge in which: one person stares through the camera to prove they eat 5 times the daily caloric amount recommended by some organization and I don’t know why this exists or why I know this exists, that one video alone has 11 million views but it looks like he’s watching me watch him and


When I was twelve I went to the grocery store with my mom and in the fluorescent lighting of the frozen food aisle emerged an old woman who came up to us and told us that we looked so much alike, I must’ve been an immaculate conception. The look in her eyes told me she believed it so much I was confused to have had my most religious experience next to the dairy section.


Head of lettuce ear of corn blood pudding hearts of palm elbow pasta kidney bean angel hair, something about religion and bread as body, I learned once that somewhere in Freud you can come to the conclusion that hunger is the prototype of all satisfaction because feeling satiated is only ever temporary. I’m not really interested in psychoanalysis but when I was asked where we turn to for instinctual gratification a computer seems like a weird answer.


There are 166 definitions for the word hunger in the oxford english dictionary. There are 166 calories in one tablespoon peanut butter and one medium apple. I wonder how many of them have to do with desire;


I found a list of “hunger related diseases” and it features Malnutrition. I didn’t know that it can also mean when the body has too many nutrients.


Official diagnosis: early satiety. What it is: a condition marked by feeling full after having eaten just a small amount of food. Really they should call it hunger that doesn’t come or maybe hunger that lasts- some things sound like a blessing but feel like a curse,


I took a class once about nature and every single book in the first section of the class taught us that bread was a poison, that the clearest way for men connected to nature to lose that connection was by turning wheat into bread. This wasn’t the first time food marked a transition from something sacred to something less.


Some definitions for the word feed: to furnish for consumption; to supply for maintenance or operation, as to a machine; to be nourished or gratified, subsist; a format that provides users with frequently updated content.


WFP says hunger kills more than AIDS, malaria, tuberculosis combined. I don’t know what WFP is but I do know that


There is a website titled “I am a Ghrelin Addict”. Ghrelin is a hunger hormone. Our body secretes it when we haven’t eaten. It makes you hungry but also, apparently, enhances learning and memory and increases our concentration of dopamine.

Empty productivity.

Hunger Anonymous.

Epilogue, by Ben

      You sit through classes at the local school, staring out of windows in stuffy classrooms. Large, square rooms, voices chanting in unison, plastic textbooks that sprawl from one end of the plastic tables to the other. Colorful pencil-boxes and packed school lunches.

   You move away to the city in spring, as high school comes to a close and you leave, excited for the televised promises of urban life. You mix with thousands of similarly excited youths, sparking with the energy coursing through the Internet age. Your rented apartment is never empty of guests, with whom you smoke furtively out of windows, watching the birds come and go. You pick up jazz, playing regularly with a small band of friends. You laze about the school grounds, dance in nightclubs, fall into love.

   You graduate brimming with promise, applying to a dozen government jobs, most of which reject you. You persevere, and find a comfortable desk job downtown. You work day and night, coming home just before midnight to eat freeze-dried TV dinners. She leaves you. You watch as promotion passes you by, once, twice. Then, you’re promoted, into a different job, doing different tasks, none of which you can really recall. This continues for many years, much of which you do remember, but only in glorious bursts of colors, in the laughter of your friends, in the crinkle of her eyes.

   You dream at nights of being a hero, but some days you’d settle for just being a decent human being. You walk through life in a daze, letting time flow by without really noticing it. You get promoted again, into a job with an even longer title. You’re tired, but you push past it. You grow stronger everyday, as you sing songs to yourself. You string your latest apartment with trinkets of memory, and soon you have boxes of stuff piled along the walls.

   An opportunity comes up. A teaching position in the university back near your hometown. You walk about the city for a few days, pondering your future. You make your decision buying ice cream besides a bridge, listening to cars roar past. You go home.

   It’s hard to deal with the quiet of the countryside at first. You long for the white noise that had enveloped your life for so long, but eventually, you learn to wean yourself off it, as if it were any other drug. You travel to work everyday by train. On the walk to the station, you’d stare at the cherry trees, drawing memories of your childhood, of you napping beneath their wide canopies on the way to class.

   The station seems old now that you’ve tasted the city. You like its oldness; it’s somehow comforting. When you close your eyes, you can hear the distant trains, rushing about their tracks, roaring and bellowing towards the vast, open sky. Deep down, past the sounds of chatter and the buzz of cars, you hear the rushing of your blood, mixing with the passing trains, blurring into a river of light.

Crossed Wires #1: The Contentious City in the Craft Sequence & A History of Future Cities

This is a fortnightly column which places two books – one science fiction or fantasy, the other nonfiction – in conversation with each other.

First, a short primer for why this column even exists, when science fiction/fantasy (SFF) and nonfiction seem to make for odd bedfellows. This column is mostly trying to think about SFF as a genre that has always provided and continues to provide answers to the questions that nonfiction poses: after all this history and analysis of our current affairs, what does our future look like? What can  it look like? SFF is a genre that, at its best, imagines worlds of alternate histories and alternate futures, presenting humanity in all its richness and strangeness. It’s also a genre that defamiliarizes with world-building and new internal logics. Digging deep enough often reveals not the anxieties of alien civilizations but our own, obliquely reflected but more piercing for how, eventually, they are revealed to be deeply felt truths.

Today’s books, the Craft Sequence (which is actually five books, oops) by Max Gladstone and A History of Future Cities by Daniel Brook, would probably be shelved on opposite ends of the bookstore. The former is a series of loosely interlocking stories, set in the same post-industrial, post-war fantasyland where magic, also known as Craft, is surprisingly familiar and modern, and understood more in the language of economics, finance, and litigation than that of potions and mystical forces; it is a world where priestesses are also investment bankers and legal contracts, drawn up three-dimensionally with Craft, literally bind their signatories to a new version of reality. Meanwhile, the latter book is a socio-historical guide through four larger-than-life cities—St. Petersburg, Shanghai, Mumbai, and Dubai—that articulates how the interweaving of colonialism, internationalism, and the anxieties over modernity and national identity in a globalized world culminated in these cities as explicitly state-building and state-strengthening projects. What these books have in common is their use of cities as a framework and battleground in which the most pressing concerns of our society are played out. In fact, the urban spaces illustrated are not just empty settings, but characters in and of themselves, representing and demonstrating the worldviews of its creators or residents and arguing for their way of life.

Gladstone’s books are concerned not with Arthurian quests or big battles between Good and Evil; rather, their conflicts sound like they could have been lifted from a history textbook or even today’s newspapers. In Last First Snow, Temoc, a veteran warrior-priest of the God Wars, clashes with his old opponent, the King in Red (an immortal Craftsman) and his consortium of investors, when they plan to redevelop an impoverished part of the city of Dresediel Lex. To do so, they would have to remove the old protection wards laid down by the Gods Temoc and his fellowship believed in, and replace them with bonds of Craft. As the civic protests organized by Temoc and his fellow community leaders strengthen, lawyers are brought in to negotiate a settlement between the current community and the encroaching forces of capital and commerce. It’s the story of gentrification and rampant developmentalism we see in our cities today, but with necromancers and human sacrifice thrown in. Likewise, the latest installment, A Ruin of Angels, is the story of conservationists and the indigenous people of a war-torn land who reclaim their colonized city—sometimes literally, through a process called delving, where, in places where reality is worn out and history seeps through, one can slip into the suppressed alternate reality of their home that has been precariously layered over by the invading Iskari empire’s own strictly controlled version.

Using the wholly ‘unreal’ conceits of magic and necromancy, gods and rituals, Gladstone dismantles our modern day’s discontents with globalization and homogeneity, crass commercialism, the struggle between late-stage capitalism and authenticity, and our colonial hangovers which have festered unacknowledged, all with a deftness that leaves you blinking at the end, surprised by the roundabout familiarity of it all.

A History of Future Cities is the perfect accompaniment to the sharp-edged mythos of the Craft Sequence. Common themes of modernization, cultural imperialism and supremacy, and globalization-as-Westernization run through the narratives of the four “dis-orient-ed metropolises” that Brook guides us through. The book traces the cities’ artificial lineages, starting with Peter the Great’s master plan of recreating Europe by scratch on the banks of the Neva, a marshy swampland completely inhospitable to urban life, to Dubai’s towering accomplishments that, lost in the clouds, obscure the realities of the people who toil beneath them. At the same time, he lays out a meta-narrative of global developmentalism that exchanges thoughtful design with sustainable dwelling in mind for the bragging rights of the biggest, shiniest, and tallest. He describes the rapid proliferation of the homogenized global city, where distinguishing between two cities in two completely different countries is almost impossible; void of local elements, which are often seen as folksy or backward, the new city is a metastasizing bug, self-replicating over and over again to valorize their nation-states in the race for global status.

Brook asserts that these four cities are “ideas as much as cities, metaphors in stone and steel for the explicit goal of Westernization,” and its residents must contend with the potential to “untether oneself from the past and build the future” in their new, modern cities even as they question what they have lost—autonomy, authenticity, ancestry—in the process. Similarly, the characters in the Craft Sequence must grapple with the complexities of their history that is often embedded in the cities that have emerged from the ashes of the Wars; from our own histories, we know that things are rarely as simple as we’d like them to be. Are the people of Alikand right to remain tethered, quite literally, to the past, when the new Iskari empire promises stability and economic growth? Is Temoc, a priest who used to sacrifice his own congregation to his strange and capricious God, so clearly the David against the undead Craftsmen’s Goliath? These are questions that play out most dramatically and potently in the theatre that is the urban space, a space that also serves as a microcosm for our global community.

Henri Lefebvre first coined the term “the right to the city,” the freedom to not just build and dwell in the city, but the freedom to change it and have it change oneself. The Craft Sequence uses world-building and fantastical metaphors to illuminate the central urban and socio-economic ills we face, while A History of Future Cities stitches together the melancholy pasts and the brimming future possibilities of its very real cities to ask us what we want our urban spaces and lives to look like, but the quest for “the right to the city” is something that shines through in both.

UPCOMING: Workshop Your Prose and Poetry Over Joe’s Pizza!


Poetry Workshop:

Come workshop your poems in an informal gathering with fellow writers and West 10th‘s poetry editors! West 10th, now accepting submissions, is NYU’s undergraduate, student-edited literary journal sponsored by the Creative Writing Department. The poetry workshop will be held on Monday, November 27 at 8 PM in Palladium Hall, Seminar Room A. This is a great opportunity to polish pieces you are considering submitting. Bring up to three poems, not exceeding three pages in total. Check out the Facebook event here, and RSVP here.

Prose Workshop:

Come workshop your prose in an informal gathering with fellow writers and West 10th’s prose editors! West 10th, now accepting submissions, is NYU’s undergraduate, student-edited literary journal sponsored by the Creative Writing Program. The prose workshop will be held on Tuesday, November 28 at 8pm in Palladium Hall, Seminar Room A. This is a great opportunity to polish pieces you are considering submitting. Bring up to 1500 words of prose (an excerpt or an entire piece). Check out the Facebook event here, and RSVP here.