This book didn’t need to exist. I suspect that the typeface would have sold similarly without it. But it does exist, and it exists in such a wonderful way. It’s typeset and illustrated beautifully. It’s well made. It’s nice to hold. A joy to read. It’s a nice thing made at the end of a long journey making another very nice thing.

It’s objects like this that make me so grateful to be surrounded by creative people, and so inspired to create myself. Holding objects made with love makes you want to make things of your own with love—and effort, and care. You can inspire people to make with what you make. There’s maybe no higher honor, actually.

I’ve always liked the idea of working in public, which is why I own workinginpublic.com. I haven’t done anything with the domain yet, and I’m not sure what I will do with it, but I just like the idea. There’s something so great about getting to see how people think, and getting an insight into their beautiful messy process (because let’s face it, we all have a pretty messy process). Starting in a space that was a bit (or a lot) more private helped, I think.

I still want to live a in a lighthouse and read books in front of an open fire. I want to be surrounded by books. I want a comfy chair. I want wind howling at the windows, a gentle rattle reminding me of how completely vulnerable we are and how absolutely bonkers glass is. Hot sand that turns invisible and protects us. Weird stuff.

Alright, I’m going to finish this tea and go to bed. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to read. I’m exhausted and trying to get better sleep. It turns out that getting more sleep and drinking more water is just demonstrably good for you and it’s completely devastating because I’m terrible at both. Alas, I’ll just have to learn.

I spent the day listening to Sea Wall performed by Tom Sturridge in New York. There’s something so fucking great about that play. Performed by one person. No music, natural lighting, written in just three weeks. Three bloody weeks! The published playscript is slightly different to the New York one, so I transcribed it. I practiced it over and over because, well… I’m not sure, actually. I suppose I just wanted to, and that’s reason enough.

Without other responsibilities I think I’d just write things to perform and perform those things. I could do that now, of course, but it’s easier to imagine that you’d do it if only you had more time, or more energy, or more insert-excuse-here. I’m writing that down here because I want to acknowledge that it’s partly an excuse, and I want to figure out how to stop using that excuse.

What’s the shortest play I could write? What’s the smallest audience that would make me feel like I performed, and crucially (for me) with the chance that the person might not like it and might actually tell me that (i.e. they’re a critic or a stranger)? I’m sure a handful of words and a resident of the World Wide Web would do, but I’m almost certain I could do better than that.

I loved the TV show when I watched it, but the stage show is a masterpiece. It’s such a funny, moving, comforting piece of writing. A masterful performance. The smallest of facial expressions that can carry 30 seconds of complete silence and somehow make you laugh more than any of the space that’s filled with sound. Part of it is the familiar use of language that I miss, I’m sure.

I’d love to perform something like this someday. I’d love to write something this good. This weird mix of words that works on the page and works on the stage. Part novel, part poem, part screenplay. I’ve got Max Porter’s Shy on the coffee table in front of me, and I’ve been opening it all day to read a part aloud. It’s got those same qualities. I’m similarly inspired, and envious.

Do you ever feel like you’ve got a performer trapped in you? That everyone has, maybe? I really want to see everyone perform something. It could be something loud or quiet; fast or slow. I’ve had conversations with people that I wish had been caught on tape. Seen movement that should live forever on film. Occasionally, I’ll even write something myself that feels that way.

This is the kind of work that I can never get off my mind. That, left to my own devices, I think I’d make over and over again until I’d landed on something perfect; some perfect things. It all starts with writing, as almost anything should, but finding the right voice—literally—for what you write is a whole separate, wonderful thing. Finding the right pitch and tone and cadence for it.

Writing something to speak aloud is so much harder than it sounds though. Writing poetry to be performed. Writing something for screen, or stage, or whatever. The only way you can do it is by actually performing the thing in some way, over and over again until you nudge it into the right place, which might mean rewriting it and it might not. You can perform the same thing many ways.

I used to think that I didn’t like dancing, but it turns out I just didn’t like clubs. I mean, my pathetic shuffle is barely dancing, but you know what I mean. Going to clubs in the UK usually meant lots of super drunk people, and lots of blokes being a bit creepy. Californian forest parties are pretty much the exact opposite. If only I’d known that I was supposed to party in the forest.

An easy day today, mostly chores while I listen to an audiobook and hopefully a little time to work on side projects. Reading, writing, building, whatever. I’m listening back to the audio I recorded whilst hiking with Cacio yesterday and surprised at how lovely it is to go a walk with past-me. The things I didn’t really hear yesterday I get to hear now, and it feels a bit like modest time travel.