Not one of my better hikes since a little acrophobia kicked in on the drop-offs. I also picked up a hitchhiker, a tick that hadn’t yet stuffed its face when I found it. Other than those two memorable things, it was lovely, and the company just perfect.

(Photo by Dawna Davies)

The Wheel Diver

The Wheel Diver

A few layouts from The Wheel Diver, Ashley Schwellenbach’s third book. This 488-pager has been so much fun to design. Michael Arras made it somewhat easy by sending the 21 chapter illustrations one at a time so that there was breathing room between them. But there weren’t any sketches, which meant I had to run with whatever showed up.

For some perverse reason I thoroughly enjoyed working like this.



Reworked an old drawing that was never right. And, how annoying is it to realize that WordPress chews the pixels out of images? The image has a background leaf detail, which is still fuzzy even after multiple file regrinds.

In any case I’ll have to go back into this one. Still not happy with it.

The author to her book

Hannah is the 2017 winner of this year’s Poetry Out Loud competition at her school and consequently I can’t seem to pull myself away from the site. This poem by Anne Bradstreet made me laugh out loud. It takes me forever to edit a book, and the first line of the poem below is pretty much where I live until it’s done.

But . . . is it ever done?

I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,
Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:
I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come;
And take thy way where yet thou art not known,
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.