but Hendren’s editor, Rebecca Saletan, says it’s her favorite time [(before publishing and after writing)] — it’s like “having a secret before the world knows.”

A book is a flexible mirror of the mind. Its overall size and proportions, the color and texture of the paper, the sound it makes as the pages turn, and the smell of the paper, adhesive and ink, all blend with the size and form and placement of the type to reveal a little about the world in which it was made. If the book appears to be only a paper machine, produced at their own convenience by other machines, only machines will want to read it.

may also be because of the nature of poetry itself: since each poem is its own complete aesthetic experience, maybe readers feel less inclined to engage with poetry books, no matter how much they’ve enjoyed individual poems. ​ Our hope is that readers who like the prose we publish may discover, as they poke around our catalog, that they like the poetry too

My book is coming out in the UK this week. I thought rather than just begging you to all buy it, I would do a tiny thread about one part of the publishing process—The author photo. Whenever I read a book, I flip to the photo. It isn't to see if the writer is cute or what their cat looks like. It's because a long long time ago, I could barely believe that ordinary humans got to write and publish novels. I became familiar with various author photos—author plus bookshelf, author plus dog, author plus tree. Sometimes they smiled. But not often. Usually, the women were wearing make-up. Often the men were frowning. When we were choosing a photo for Starling Days. I sent off a whole parcel of photographs to @FrancineElena and the @SceptreBooks team. They chose one that I almost hadn't included. It was taken on the beach near Margate at the end of last summer. My hair is wind tangled. I was tired. I was temporarily living with my family again. Some minor health problems had come up. My partner was working very late a lot. I had poured all of myself into the new book. All of this shows in the purple crescents under my eyes. I was a bit worried when they chose it. Surely this wasn't sophisticated enough? My friend, the photographer, offered to retouch it. He wanted to make me look fancier. But my editor @FrancineElena said, she liked the unretouched better. It looked more like me. And after a while, I realized she was right. The person who wrote this book was sometimes tired and frazzled. She wasn't the most glamorous. And I didn't want to be anyone else.

As a writer, the question of worth is still one that plagues me. Today’s existential anxiety attack was set off by missing the compost drop off bc I was working on an essay. Not a solicited essay, one I want to write so I am (hopefully it'll be published but who knows) Especially on days when I’m not earning $, I put great stock in doing chores. Since I can’t contribute $ to the family, at least I can do the dishes, make dinner, dust, etc. This in part stems from my working class upbringing. And perhaps the masculine stereotype of “providing” So when I missed the compost drop off, I had a moment of absolute panic and an irrational dip of self-esteem. I had one job to do! Dropping off the goddamn compost. If I can't do that, then what good am I? As a partner, a dad, a human being. It got BIG real fast. Is it writing if it never gets published? Is it really work if I'm not being paid for it? I keep telling myself yes, hang in there, it’ll all work out, but some days I feel like I’m just mouthing the words and I don’t really believe them. Today has been one of those.