marissa castrigno

My book tells two stories at once: how New York's identity as a city coalesced around its subway, and how my own identity as a young artist coalesced while riding that same system a century later.

Tunnel Vision sketches the narrator’s world in the kind of patchwork way everyday life is lived. Sling pizza ‘til you land an office job, have an existential crisis about laboring in corporate America, get drunk and sleep with a Tinder date (or three), slam a granola bar to stave off the panic of embodiment, toil and wonder—is this really it?

The city’s breakneck pace echoes the narrator’s anxiety, and underneath it the subway churns relentlessly, stuck in its closed system. Dating yields first an abusive, mentally ill girlfriend whose departure cuts just as deep as the relationship. The narrator looks for answers in books and movies and art, always trying to quash her loneliness. She gives a performance of identity, waiting to feel real: queer, Jewish, writer, girlfriend, daughter. A few key friendships provide the only solid ground. Liberal Arts college promised a fulfilling career that’s proven elusive, and her patience is waning.

As a habitual subway rider I did what many others do on the train—read, listened to music, and spent a lot of time thinking: where was I going and how would I get there? What type of person would I be, and how would I bring her to fruition? My book is, literally and figuratively, about the ride. It runs about 75,000 words.

I’m inspired by Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts for its intellectual fervor, Jenny Offill’s Dept. of Speculation for its structure, and Elif Batuman’s The Idiot for its observational nature and wit.