Fawnlight & Footnotes

I don’t know how to begin things properly.

I tend to circle first. To collect fragments. To write around what I mean instead of directly towards it. Beginnings feel exposed. Like standing in a doorway too long, unsure whether to enter or retreat. This blog began the same way.

I didn’t start it because I had something polished to say, or a clear argument to make. I started it because the thinking had no other place to go. Because sentences were forming without asking permission, and I needed a place where they could exist without being finished.

Writing has always been like this for me. Less a declaration, more a way of staying. When things become too loud or too crowded in my head, language is how I slow them down. Not to fix them. Just to hold them long enough to look at.

I am interested in writing as a process rather than a product. In drafts that misbehave. In thoughts that refuse to resolve cleanly. I am interested in history not as a closed book, but as something porous – something that leaks into the present whether we acknowledge it or not. This space is for that kind of thinking.

I will write about books, because books are where I learned how to think. I will write about history, because the past has a way of insisting on relevance. I will write about writing itself, because it is the only way I know how to make sense of what presses in from the edges of experience.

Some of what appears here will be careful. Some will be uncertain. Some of it may contradict what I thought I knew the week before. That isn’t failure. It’s the point.

I don’t promise regularity, or clarity, or answers. I promise attention. I promise to write honestly, and to leave room for doubt.

This is me beginning – not clearly, not confidently, but sincerely. That will have to be enough.