The Center for Fiction

Growth is a big theme in my life lately. I watch Finnegan grow at home. I watch my to-do list grow at work. And I’ve been watching Brooklyn’s new Center for Fiction grow in Fort Greene.

For months, a giant wall of bookshelves has been going up behind dusty glass on the stretch of Lafayette Street storefront between the place where I take postnatal Pilates and the place where I drink post-Pilates smoothies. Every Sunday, craning my neck to catch glimpses of fresh books being unpacked, furniture being installed, and staff members being trained has become something of a weekend ritual for me. I have, unabashedly, slipped into the role of nosy old lady who just likes to “keep tabs on what’s happening in the neighborhood.” 

Local busybody that I am, I practically raced into the Center when it opened to the public last month. Instead of my usual mint chip smoothie, I got a latte at the Center for Fiction’s coffee bar and proceeded to poke around its bookstore, auditorium, and even the members-only second floor. Like some gorgeous mash-up of a university, The Wing, and McNally Jackson, this 18,000 square foot space has it all – a giant cache of crime fiction, a 70,000 book lending library, a million nooks to read in, and even a Writer’s Studio with decks, lockers, and stocked fridges. And, much like Oslo’s famed Litteraturhuset after which it was modeled, the Center for Fiction has significant ambitions – to be a source of inspiration, refuge, and community for writers (and maybe even wannabe writers like me!) 

So now I have a new Sunday routine. I still stress out on the reformer, but afterwards I stop by the Center for Fiction to daydream, wander, and shake off side-eye from the second-floor librarians who don’t appreciate my snooping.