I’m Brooklyn Simmons

I have kept a diary since I was eleven, first in a series of notebooks with terrible locks on them, and since 2016 out loud, here. The subject has not changed much: what I ate, where I walked, who I was worried about, and what turned out to be worth the trouble.

I write from a small house outside Asheville with a kitchen that gets the morning light and a desk that does not. Most weeks there is one long entry and one short one. The long ones take a fortnight and the short ones take twenty minutes, and readers cannot reliably tell which is which — which I have decided to find encouraging rather than insulting.