Essays, notes, and small observations on writing, design, and slow living.
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There is something steadying about copying a sentence by hand — not for posterity, but because the act itself slows the mind enough to let the words settle. I've kept a commonplace book for nine years now, and it has quietly become the most honest record of who I've been.
Continue reading →I used to admire the long sentence — the kind that uncoils across half a page, gathering modifiers and qualifications like burrs on a coat. I still do, sometimes. But increasingly I find myself trusting the short one more.
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 →A small collection of fragments caught on trains, in cafés, and once at a bus stop in the rain. None of them are mine. All of them are kept.
Continue reading →I draft everything by hand first. Not for any romantic reason — it's just that the keyboard is too fast for the part of me that does the actual thinking.
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