Good on paper

I stopped bothering with resolutions years ago, but I still love chewing on a good new year's word or theme. For 2026, I'm into the vibe of "fruit" or "bloom," as in, it feels like a good time to let past and present efforts push through the dirt, finally, and yield something real. (Will keep you posted on that.) Sending you whatever prompting you need to feed your own dreams, pet projects, and impetuous nonsense in the meantime. (Keep me posted on those, too?)

By way of a reintroduction, I started this newsletter last year to keep myself on the lookout for glimmers of kindness, creativity, and other ineffable things that keep us going when we feel like hope is lost. A few months into that, I moved to a new country and continent to start a master's degree program, which sort of disappeared me from this project for a bit. I'd like to return here more often this year, maybe every other week? to share things I find heartening. Maybe I'll drop these introductions altogether since that's the part that trips me up and keeps me from doing these more often; they feel a little hokey, I recently learned the word "gimcrackery" and it haunts me*, and I suppose cutting them could encourage greater frequency. We won't call it a resolution, though. We're just planting seeds.

Light and water ahoy:

1. So there's this Icelandic tradition you may have heard of already, but I'm here to remind you of it: Jolabokaflod (i.e., Christmas book flood) is the country's annual act of publishing a ton of new books in the autumn months, giving people enough time to pick them up before the winter holidays. On December 24, after dinner, it's customary to give each other those books, cozy up with some chocolate and a malt beverage, and read deep into the night. The tradition most likely began during World War II, when imported products (including books) were scarce and paper was one of the few workaday luxuries not subject to rations. Personally, I think any excuse to eat chocolate and read late into the night is plenty good enough.
2. Loosely related: brava to the University of Texas students reviving The Rag, an underground paper that's been defunct for half a century. It launched in the Vietnam War era when free speech was under attack at US universities, then fizzled out under a hostile takeover. For... reasons, a duo of UT Austin roommates (plus a mangaging editor) figured now would be a good time to bring it back. You can subscribe, free or paid, here.
3. Enjoy the work of papercraft artist Alley McGlinn, who makes these mesmerizing pop-up books, paper tunnel stories and whimsical ephemera of all sorts. And try it yourself, if you dare! She offers a quick tutorial here with supply list included, although ymmv re: matching her background in mechanical engineering.
4. I wouldn't even begin to know how to dive into the art and science of emulsion transfer, but looking at it sure is nice. (artist: Anastasia Mez)
5. In Minneapolis, Rosemary Furtak was the Walker Art Center's beloved librarian for something like 30 years before her death in 2012. While there, she kicked off a worldwide interest in curating artists' books for public enjoyment. Take a moment to read about her obsession with books that don't behave like books, and then take a few more to look through her giant collection (or if you're in a hurry, just cruise through this tl;dr version).
6. And on the topic of books, Solange Knowles just launched the Saint Heron Community Library, a free archive of mostly rare, out-of-print, and first-edition books by Black and brown authors. Checkout periods last up to 45 days with complimentary shipping and return postage. From what I can tell, you've got to be quick with each fresh release, and the cover art alone is worth a rabbit hole tumble; just wait til you see what all's in there.
7. Last but not least, enjoy this young acid-free king going off about fractals. Yes, I meant to type each of those words in exactly that order.

Here's to new possibilities, dear ones.

*see also: gew-gaw and falderal

The plum you’re going to eat next summer

doesn’t exist yet; its potential
lives inside a tree you’ll never see
in an orchard you’ll never see, will be touched
by a certain number of water droplets
before it reaches you, by certain angles
of light, by a finite amount of bugs
and dust motes and hands
you’ll never know. The plum you are
going to eat next summer will gather
sugar, gather mass, will harden
at its center so it can soften toward
your mouth. The plum
you’re going to eat next
summer doesn’t know
you exist. The plum you are
going to eat next summer
is growing just for you.

—Gayle Brandeis

01 January 2026

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