Where Hua Hsu Writes

A friend once came up with the idea of the “negative threshold.” There are the books that inspire us, the ones that rewire our brains and make us feel hopelessly dull and inarticulate. But most books are just okay, if that. So, as my friend was finishing his dissertation, he would keep a copy of “average books” in adjacent fields on his desk. Just a reminder that if this person thought they could do it, you can, too. We’re all just trying.

These days, I try to surround myself with things that are more positive than negative. I liked the idea that our surroundings are always lurking, threatening to knock us off course or push us further. You just have to glance at the wrong title. This has been useful as I’ve worked on my second book, Stay True, a memoir that’s more or less my 1998. I’ve fetishized “desk space” since I was a kid, and I like the minor clutter of my wall.

Clockwise above my desk: a Project Blowed photo by Brian Cross (B+); a painting my mom made in the seventies, a David Choe print that reminds me of this one rainy night in Oakland in 1997; some drawings by Yina Kim that were printed alongside an essay I once wrote about my family/Chinese food; a photo of Martin Luther King, Jr. eating an ice chip that I found on eBay; a plate of noodles.

Hanging about those things are a Baby Yoda that my kid gave me, bells from a Standing on the Corner gig, assorted cords and adapters. I’m constantly in pain so that’s an ergonomic keyboard. The mug “I survived the Committee on Fellowships 2010-2011.” I hate that printer with a passion. Printers are such bullshit, but I come from a generation that feels like we need to have one at home. This is the Epson XP-400. It’s deceptively cheap, but then, when the “color ink” that you never use “runs out,” the entire thing doesn’t work. So you are in this endless cycle of buying various colors of ink, just to print out a permission slip or something.

Yes, that is a wine fridge under my desk.

Like I said, I try and surround myself with positive things, surprising little portals, nice triggers. There’s pictures and postcards underneath the notes taped to the wall that occasionally ambush me. The divider filled with notebooks also has random zines, like “Secret Asian Man,” which you can see to the right of my computer. (If anyone can find the creator of “Secret Asian Man”—the late nineties Seattle/New York one, not the graphic novel—please let me know. I’ve been trying to figure out who “M.” is for like twenty years.)

To the right of my desk: most my records (too boring to get into). The books piled on top are organized, I think? Behind the two stacks (which you can’t see, so take my word for it) are memoirs, literary nonfiction, books with formal quirks that excite me. One of these piles is books I got for review or as part of Primary Information’s incredible annual subscription service. The other pile is stuff I’m reading for various imminent projects/classes.

Here’s another pile with some old bookmarks from no-longer existing bookstores, some photos, these Japanese folders that are stuffed with even more random flyers, notes, etc, a program for a prison moratorium conference I volunteered at in college, and a pamphlet about whiteness and Marxism that my mom or dad bought in the seventies.

For a while, I used this old recipe box for writing ideas. It’s filled with index cards with random ideas and riffs. For a while, I used the recipe box and cards to map out Stay True. But then my friend Sana introduced me to Scrivener, and I used that instead. (Though for some reason the file is called “Islands Batman.”)

I keep random piles of things in drawers and in dividers throughout my office. They’re like mental junk drawers, I guess. Here’s one with old flyers and mementos, very old letters, random photos of people I do not know, but like looking at. If I turn around from my desk, there’s a small table with the books I’m teaching this semester, and then two bins filled with more somewhat random texts that I browse for escape/inspiration. Right now, it’s some more of those Primary Information pamphlets, some reprinted Sun Ra poetry pamphlets from Corbett vs. Dempsey, some 1960s and 1970s Asian American Movement publications, and a couple issues of The Face and URB from the nineties.

Our books are on these four long shelves. They’re probably higher up than they need to be, which is annoying and sometimes dangerous, when I’m tiptoeing along the edge of a couch to reach some book on Puritans. There are better reasons to hurt yourself. Naturally, as an only child and packrat, there are more random curios everywhere. My friend James’ late father was a well-known filmmaker, and he collected Japanese notebooks. So I have these unused notebooks that remind me of—I’m not sure what, exactly, it’s like everything—a reminder to begin projects, inspiration, the pleasures of a blank document, the ongoingness of work, the first word.

Below that are a couple pieces by this artist named Charlie Mai. (They were recently joined by some Stephanie Shih pieces.) I’m working on a book called “Impostor Syndrome,” so I think the “FAKES” thing refers to books that touch on personal authenticity and performance. I’m not calling those books or their authors fakes! I don’t do that anymore. We’re all about positive vibes now.

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