Essays, notes, and small observations on writing, design, and slow living.
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Invisible Cities is a book I return to every few years, usually when something in my life has gone strange or quiet. This spring it found me in the latter mood, and Calvino, as always, was patient company.
Continue reading →White space is not the absence of design — it is the design. A wide margin is an invitation to think, and a narrow one is a small act of impatience.
Continue reading →The first reading is for the plot. The second is for the sentences. The third is for the silences between them. Some books only become themselves on the third pass.
Continue reading →A new notebook in February is a small rebellion against the long grey middle of the year. The paper is cream, the lines are faint, and the first page is, as always, the hardest.
Continue reading →I have started leaving my phone at home on Sunday afternoons. The world rearranges itself almost immediately. The trees are still trees, but I notice them again.
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