it's been a long december.
on 2025, making bad art, and the best books I read this year.
I am staring down the barrel of a year in which I did significantly less reading and writing than in years past. I usually have a very loose goal of reading 52 books a year and, since 2010, I have always met or exceeded that goal, but this year I fell slightly short at 45 books. I also set my writing practice to the side this year, focusing more on my journal rather than any larger project. I am saying this not to lament my lack of creative acumen this year, but to be honest that sometimes it’s okay to take a break in the process, it doesn’t mean you’ve fallen off the coil completely.
We moved from the Bay Area to the desert on Valentine’s Day and much of my life looks very different now than it did a year ago. The view from my window is no longer of redwoods and Cal’s campanile, but of desert mountains that reflect the orange sunsets and the distant lights of a military base. I am still finding my creative groove and situating it within the excitement of discovering a new place and the rote routine of work that persists despite the change in view.
Writing has, of course, remained a huge part of my life and this year I published my fourth book, Select Screen, attended AWP in Los Angeles, and read at two different events for the 29 Palms Book Festival in November. As anyone knows, when you uproot yourself and move to a new community, everything is compounded by the feeling of loneliness and a dose of ‘my god, what have I done?’—so, having the opportunity to read my writing in my new town was a special one.
To combat the physical darkness of winter, and any sort of accompanying existential dread, I have spent the last few weeks focused on making what I am referring to as “bad art.” I don’t necessarily mean intentionally creating aesthetically unappealing pieces, but rather trying new things instead of focusing only on the talents I already possess.
Earlier this year, my father-in-law gifted me a pottery wheel. It’s a sturdy old thing, electrical, and currently sitting silently in my garage. I haven’t taken a pottery class since college and I certainly can’t center anything on the wheel. So, I signed up for a 4-course pottery introduction from a local artist and started learning. My first attempts at what I lovingly refer to as “bowl cups” felt like the start of something. Here is a tangible object I’ve created and, unlike writing, I can almost immediately put it on my shelf and look at it.
What I mostly learned from my first pottery class was how to let go of everything swirling around in my head and just focus on what was in front of me. I made a wonky, organic vase in my next class, then signed up for a ‘paint and sip’ with a friend, and declared on Threads that I wanted to write a play.
Next year, I hope to make my year of bad art—I want to try things and fail and improve. Oftentimes, the fear that everything must feel like a finished project affects my ability to embrace whimsy and delight in learning. Maybe I will work on language classes or commit more to yoga or make ugly jewelry, I want to be open to new experiences. Whatever may happen, I know I will keep writing and reading and creating, which feels like my own small form of resistance in a world that keeps telling writers and artists: “don’t worry, AI can do it,” or wants to censor our expression entirely.
And, before I disappear until 2026, here are my favorite books I read this year:
Modern Nature by Derek Jarman
The Sound of the Mountain by Yasunari Kawabata
The Easter Parade by Richard Yates
The New Age of Sexism by Laura Bates
A Woman in the Polar Night by Christiane Ritter
Nothing Holds Back the Night by Delphine de Vigan
Perfection by Vincenzo Latronico
Audition by Katie Kitamura
Die, My Love by Ariana Harwicz
Supporting Act by Agnes Lidbeck
Alexa, play “A Long December” by The Counting Crows.