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The world is a disaster right now. Not in an abstract way. Not in a someday historians will explain this  way. In a right-now, hard-to-breathe, hard-to-look-away kind of way. The kind that makes your jaw tighten as you scroll. The kind that seeps into your body even when you’re trying to stay informed and  intact. There’s a particular exhaustion that comes from watching power be used carelessly. From seeing cruelty framed as strength. From realizing that the world being built

January has a way of arriving with a clipboard. New habits. New goals. New versions of ourselves—sleeker, faster, more “on track.” Even our hobbies can start to feel like assignments. And if you’re anything like me, reading is one of the first places that pressure can sneak in. So this year, I’m choosing something quieter. Not a reading challenge. Not a number to hit. Not a stack that proves I kept up. Just a return. Below are a few Fern & Fiction–style New Year resolutions—s

There’s a quiet relief in saying this out loud: You don’t have to finish the book. You don’t have to power through pages that no longer feel like they’re speaking to you. You don’t have to keep reading something just because you once loved it, or because you should . Sometimes a book is meant to walk with us only part of the way. I think reading can be more like sitting beside someone than reaching a destination. We open a book for company. For comfort. For curiosity. And whe

Hello, and welcome. I’m writing to you from a quiet moment--the kind that doesn’t announce itself. A pause between tasks. A soft light through a window. A book nearby, not demanding to be finished, just waiting. That’s the spirit of Quiet Letters . These notes aren’t meant to inform or persuade or optimize your time. They’re meant to rest alongside you . To remind you that reading can be slow, that stillness can be enough, that peace doesn’t need to be earned. You might read