If you are reading this, it is likely because you wish to know something of the hand that writes to you. I will not attempt to say everything at once. Letters do not work that way. They reveal a person slowly, through tone and repetition, through what is returned to and what is left unsaid.

I write from an ordinary life, and I have found that this is no small thing. Much of my attention is given to the quiet structures that hold a day together — reading in my library, writing reflections by hand, keeping a home, sustaining quality relationships over time. These are not incidental to the work. They are where it is formed.

I am drawn to forms that resist haste. Handwriting slows my thoughts and gives them weight. Long familiarity with books, especially timeless literature, has taught me that meaning is not produced quickly, and that the sentences worth keeping are often the ones that ask something of us in return. I am less interested in novelty than I am in endurance. What enchants me are words that can be lived with, questions that deepen rather than resolve.

The letters you receive are written with this in mind. They are not meant to instruct or persuade, but to accompany you. Some arrive fully shaped; others are quieter, fragmentary, shaped by what I have been reading or noticing. All are written as letters, addressed to a singular recipient rather than an audience, revised carefully and sent without urgency.

You need not know everything about me to read these letters well. It is enough to know that they are written with attention, and that they are offered honestly. Over time, if you choose to keep them, you may come to recognize the voice behind them. That is how letters have always worked, and I trust the form to do its work.