Well Intended

I've lost touch with someone I used to be very close with. Believe me, this is all for the best — it did not, as they say, end well. But I can't escape those idle moments when I think of her, and wonder, and from time to time I somehow end up reading a column she writes for the her small local newspaper.

I think I fell in love with her words. That was how we met, in a restless flurry of written words. And she had a blog, where she revealed herself to everyone in secret — but, of course, I knew it was her. Her voice was distinctive and personal, and when using it she seemed less afraid to confront the world that had closed in around her.

I thought it might be fun (mischievous, but fun) to search for the clues of what had become of her life over the past several years. What a disappointment to find that her work has become almost a caricature. I know, this all smacks of bitterness, and there is that, must confess. It's just that her work has all the same themes, even the same words, that I remember so well. It's as though these years have never passed.

In each column she'll confess her weakness, share an experience from her past, and aspire to be much more noble and virtuous. And over and over and over again. But it's not only cliched, it's so much less personal — it's not her voice, it's this superficial, idealized vision of who she wants a reader to believe she is. Granted, a small town newspaper might not be the best opportunity to share your secrets, or yourself — and anyone who knew her, really knew her, we knew that she was anything but virtuous. That was part of the fun. (That more than smacks of bitterness, so the less said, the better.) This just seems so hollow by comparison.

(Oh, and on the oft chance you should happen to read this? You were never the one who repaired your broken window or replaced your car battery.)

Late

I am beginning to believe that time speeds up rather suddenly every weekday afternoon, just about 4:25 PM -- because inevitably, the next time I look at the clock it's several minutes past 4:30 PM.

Step Out

Another is here.

The Circus

Sketches: What If They Lived?

You know, I did the series of thumbnail sketches for this book so long ago (this scan is from late May), that I have only a dim memory of my thought process at that time. But I think the idea of a book title as a question is tremendously appealing, in that it lends itself to the (obvious) element of the question mark. (And there are some very attractive question marks, typographically speaking.) So I did several variations on that approach, along with some slightly more conservative stuff, you know, just in case.

I'll bet I suggested my favorite was the one in the top right corner, because that was what we went with.

When the time came to put together a more formal version of the cover (this time, in late September), I really had only the title to work with, so I put in placeholder text ("Blah blah blah blah") for the rest of the elements. The large question mark was set in Clarendon, at a slight angle to fit the space better. I tried a version with all of the type set in Clarendon, but decided on Bodoni, instead, because I wanted to use the variety of different weights.


I really like that white version of the cover (on the left) — I like white covers, because they seem to be more rare — but I felt that the question mark held together better with the period when the top was white, to match the predominant color of the photo. I mean, yeah, I suppose it works just as well with the black of the photo defining the round edge of the period (and if I keep looking at it, I'll probably change my mind!), but I chose to go with the black version.

Here's the finished cover, which I put together just this morning. I resisted adding lots of color for it's own sake, because I think this design works best in very simple black-and-white — but I also didn't want the cover to look as though it were unfinished. I've introduced a small amount of blue (I tried a few other colors, including red, though that somehow seemed too gory for the subject matter), but I've kept the title in white, because it's important that it be linked with the question mark. And because I like it like that.

The Six-and-a-Half-Hour Bookblock

I did a 400-page bookblock today — 400 pages! —designed it, put it together, adjusted the design a bit, then adjusted the design a bit more, all in a day's work. (Out of deference to the author and publisher, the title of the book will not be disclosed.) Mind you, it had no photos (which is unusual) and it was fairly easy to format — but it was still a labor-intensive process, and it's been a very long day.

Cathedral

My eight-year-old built this. (Actually, this is the second time he built this, or something like it — the first time, it was accidentally destroyed by a clumsy friend before I had the chance to take a picture of it.) He proudly announced to me that this was a cathedral, but that it was not like any other cathedral, and that all the people who don't believe in God come to it. (He went on to describe that the roof opens up for weapons to be pointed at the sky, presumably in the direction of God).

We had been watching "Building The Great Cathedrals" on NOVA not long before this. It's obviously sparked his imagination. He has the general sense of a cathedral as a church, as a place of worship — but I'm still not sure what inspired him to create one for such contrary reasons. I was puzzling over this with a friend, not too long ago, and she gave me a sort of you're-missing-the-obvious look — that had to have come from his parents, of course. But I'm really not so sure.

I tend to keep my opinions on religion mostly to myself, particularly around my son, because I'd like to think of that as a decision he ought to be allowed to come to on his own (and I think eight years old might be too soon to arrive at it). That said, though, as a family, we're not antagonistic to religion, but it's obvious we don't embrace it. The most practical contact he's had with religion has been to admire an old stone church from the outside.

I very gently tried to get him to elaborate a bit on why someone would want to build a cathedral for this purpose, but his interest in the conversation trailed off, and he began to describe a symbol he had built, trying to make the complicated shape with his fingers.

I try to encourage him to understand that not everyone will think or do or believe what he does, and that a certain amount of understanding of those differences (and either tolerating them, or failing that, just keeping quiet) goes a long, long way.

Maybe that's just the nature of eight years old — to be contrary.