no. 001 — a quiet record
고요한 준
I keep a small notebook by the window, where the light arrives first each morning. For weeks, the pages stay empty. I open it, smooth the paper with my palm, and close it again.
This is not a failure of writing. The page is the writing. The waiting is the work.
I work on three small projects at once, and none of them are urgent. Each is a private correspondence with a question I cannot yet phrase out loud.
A long-form essay collection on the verbs we have lost — tarry, abide, dwell — and the lives that lived inside them.
read the first chapter →Twelve hand-bound chapbooks, each a single morning of writing about the same empty chair, observed from twelve angles across one season.
request a copy →A small letterpress practice, printing four poems a year on Awagami kozo paper. Editions of forty, mailed without announcement.
enter the studio →Once a year, I count not what I have made, but what I have refused. The list is longer, and gentler, and I keep it folded inside the drawer with the unsharpened pencils.
By December the desk is bare again. The lamp is lit early, the kettle goes on at four. I read what I read every winter: short books, written in cold houses, by people who outlived their loud years.
This is the season I trust most.
고요는 가장 큰 방이다.
Stillness is the largest room.
Three or four times a year, I send a slow letter — never an announcement, never a sale. Only the small notes I would have written by hand, if I had your address.