wait, have we met?
I’m a writer who from a very young age was only ever certain of one thing: I’m a writer. I’m also the mother of a seven-year-old who has informed me more than once that he’s from Paris, France, not Providence, Rhode Island. I’m the wife of a talented cabinetmaker and stackaholic who cannot suppress his desire to build small totems of bills, magazines, catalogs and hardware store acquisitions all over the house. No surface is safe.
I run in the street, a lot. I’m a fan of simplicity. A design apprecianado whose eyes are larger than both her wallet and her home. A fan of midcentury modern’s sensibilities. A follower of the middle path. A frequent repurposer of other people’s discards. A daily user of and believer in technology. I love lamp. The imaginative works of others make me jump for joy. A well-chosen font pleases me.
I have no patience for crossword puzzles, reality tv, botox, manicures, haters, whiners, Hummers or clutter. I enjoy the unexpected smiles of complete strangers. A smoky lapsang souchong in the morning. Digging my hands into the soil. Balance. I crave light, an introductory sentence that makes me want to read more, fabrics with texture, dried cherries, butterfly kisses. Lists. While not exactly rich, I realize that I am extremely privileged to be able to write for a living, to not have to worry about my family’s survival because somehow people actually pay me for what I like do, and that sometimes I get to write about utter nonsense — no paycheck attached. — Brook