It all started with Noah’s Ark.

For years — almost since before the Flood — I’ve been receiving emails intended for the Rev. Dr. Ron Charles, a biblical archaeologist and missionary who has written about his search for Noah’s Ark in Turkey.

My questions about that endeavor are 300 cubits long, but that’s beside the point. The real miracle is the gumption of publicists who tell me they understand Dr. Charles’s books so well that they can help me sell more copies.

Thus began my relationship with Reese Witherspoon.

In April, I got an invitation from Sofia Brown, who said she “partners with Reese’s Book Club x Hello Sunshine.” Sofia really liked Dr. Charles’s Chasing Jesus, a chronological account of Jesus’ life.

“Your approach,” she wrote, “encourages readers to engage not only with the story itself but with the process of uncovering meaning, reconciling perspectives, and exploring the intersection of history and belief” — always nice to hear, even if it’s not your book.

She was offering me the chance to feature Chasing Jesus in her upcoming community reading challenge.

“Our community is drawn to works that inspire meaningful reflection and thoughtful discussion, particularly those that explore profound questions of identity,” which certainly seemed relevant in my case.

She signed off, “We believe,” which I believe because after explaining to Sofia that I’m not the author of Chasing Jesus, she invited me three more times. Her faith, it seems, is unshakable.

And then, lo and behold, Reese Witherspoon began writing to me.

She was fascinated with Dr. Charles’s The Search: A Historian’s Search for Historical Jesus.

“As I explored the book,” she wrote, “I couldn’t help but imagine how effectively its ideas could be translated into a visual documentary, historical drama, or educational series.”

Out of curiosity, I wrote back asking what the next steps would be, but after several rounds, I explained, “Just remember, I don’t really know anything about The Search, because I’m not Dr. Ron Charles; I’m Ron Charles, the former book critic for The Washington Post.”

What I’ve always admired about Reese Witherspoon is her persistence, and sure enough, she wasn’t about to let a little mistaken identity stand in the way of a promising Hollywood project.

“I sincerely apologize for the mix-up,” she wrote. “Since we have already started this conversation, I would still be very interested in learning more about your own writing and literary work.”

Finally!

“Do you think,” I asked her, “that a collection of my book reviews could be made into some kind of ensemble serial TV show?”

I was imagining something like White Lotus, but with quibbles.

“Yes, absolutely,” Reese Witherspoon replied. “Please send me the PDF or compiled collection of the book reviews you have in mind.”

After “going through the material very carefully,” she wrote back to me: “Dear Richard Russo...”

Hurt but unwilling to give up my dreams of television success, I explained that I was the book critic Ron Charles, not the novelist Richard Russo.

“I sincerely apologize for the misunderstanding,” she replied. “Your idea of developing your book reviews into an ensemble TV series is certainly something I would be interested in exploring further.” And then she signed off as Jackson Stephen.

When I asked about that strange name change, she wrote back, “I apologize for the confusion. I’m Reese Witherspoon, an award-winning American actress, producer, and media entrepreneur,” which is perfectly understandable because who among us hasn’t suddenly started using another person’s name?

Anywho, the time for me to connect with a Film Creative Documents Master had arrived!

Jackson Vill would help me explore turning my “book reviews into an ensemble television series.” The first step, he explained, is to “establish the series concept, its world, characters, story direction, episode potential, and overall presentation.”

Which he was eager to do as soon as I chose an editorial package and transferred $750, $1,500, or $2,500 to Sodiq Ajisefinni at Lead Bank in Kansas City, Mo., where most of the great TV shows are developed.

When I finally stopped responding, Jackson asked, “Are you there, Ron Charles?” which is just the sort of searching, existential question Reese Witherspoon loves to explore.

Check your local listings.◆

The rest of the newsletter follows below.

Books Go to the Movies

• The Magic Faraway Tree, starring Andrew Garfield and Claire Foy, has glimmered into theaters (trailer). The movie is an adaptation — and modernization — of Enid Blyton’s fantasy series, which began appearing in 1939, about three siblings who move with their parents to the countryside where they discover elves, gnomes, and a very capacious tree. Hurry up: Two sequels are already planned.

• Franz, directed by Agnieszka Holland, opens today in select theaters (trailer). The movie, in German and Czech with English subtitles, drifts through time, capturing the metamorphosis of Franz Kafka’s life from childhood to his death in 1924.

• Sunday evening on AMC+, the undead will rise again for The Vampire Lestat: One Night Only Live (trailer). The concert, filmed at New York City’s Beacon Theatre on June 2, features Sam Reid as Lestat singing songs composed for the AMC+ vampire series based on Anne Rice’s immortal novel.◆

Bookworms Unite!

The National Book Festival opens tomorrow in Washington with more than 80 novelists, poets, children’s-book writers, illustrators, and other cultural figures, including Martin Scorsese (full list).

The festival, sponsored by the Library of Congress, is a book clubber’s dream. In one day, you can hear Ann Patchett, Andrew Sean Greer, Tayari Jones, Tom Perrotta, Patrick Radden Keefe, Annette Gordon-Reed, Douglas Brinkley, Kai Bird, Beverly Gage, and so many others — all you have to do is figure out how to be in several different rooms at the same time (interactive schedule).

And by all means, bring the kids. They’ll love meeting Mac Barnett, Shannon Hale, Meg Cabot, and Rex Rocket, the Cosmic Wiener Dog.

But don’t just flock to the marquee names. A trusted friend tells me that every mystery-lover she’s directed to Tim Sullivan’s books goes “totally nuts” for them. The filmmaker and writer, who self-published his first two novels, will be at the festival to talk about “The Tailor,” the eighth detective novel in his DS George Cross series.

Poets are making an especially strong showing this year. Fresh off her role as both the muse and the murderer of Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey, translator Emily Wilson will appear with U.S. Poet Laureate Arthur Sze. He’ll be discussing his recent book, Transient Worlds: On Translating Poetry.

And I’ll be talking with Sasha Waters about her new documentary, Mary Oliver: Saved by the Beauty of the World. She’ll present video clips of Oliver reading her work and conversations with people who knew her, including John Waters (trailer).

(Dept. of Small World: Yesterday morning, while eating French toast at 7a Foods on Martha’s Vineyard and shamelessly eavesdropping, as one does, I ended up meeting Allie Humenuk, a documentarian who shot additional footage for Waters’s film.)

The National Book Festival extravaganza at the Washington Convention Center — 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. Aug. 22 — is open to the public, but remember: You must have a free ticket to enter (get them here).

Of course, most of you aren’t in the Washington area, but this is your festival, too. The Library will livestream events throughout the day, and eventually all the presentations will be on the Library’s website. C-SPAN’s Book TV will also broadcast live from the festival.

Tonight, if I make it back from Martha’s Vineyard in time, Dawn and I will be at the festival’s opening celebration in the Jefferson Building — cocktails, a dinner reception, and remarks from a few of the authors, including the hilarious Jenny Lawson. This will be my first year attending the hoity-toity soirée as an independent journalist. I’ll be stuffing extra canapés in the pockets of my polyblend black suit.

P.S. In 2014, the Park Service threw the annual book festival off the National Mall for fear it was harming the grass. This weekend, while readers amble around the Washington Convention Center with their totes, the National Mall will host the inaugural Freedom 250 Grand Prix IndyCar street race.◆

Picture This

When I was teaching at a small Christian college in the Midwest, Dawn and I invited some friends to a Kraft Mac & Cheese dinner party where we served bowls of Kraft Mac & Cheese from around the world — France, India, Argentina, etc.

Of course, each bowl was exactly the same, which we thought was terribly witty. But what can I say? It was a dry campus. The next most exciting event was the Sunday hymn sing.

Now I want to throw that party again and invite Michael Benner and Alison Hawkins. They’ve just published an exceedingly silly picture book about the origins of Mac & Cheese.

At the start, Mac is a friendly noodle in Pastaland who needs a friend. He sets off across the Sea of Snacks, but he can’t find anybody who appreciates his groan-worthy jokes.

What do lazy noodles do all day?
They lasagna couch and pasta time!

Meanwhile, in Quesoland, King Cheese was feeling provolonely. “This is aging me,” he sighs.

I don’t want to give anything away, but if you use your noodle, you’ll see where this is going.

Mac & Cheese will delight the budding punster in your family even more than a creamy bowl of you know what.

I can’t think of a single bit of cheesy wordplay left unuttered in this story. It’s not just great; it’s grated.◆

This Week’s Poem

The sly wit in Donna Masini’s new collection starts right there in the title, Did You Find Everything You Were Looking For? She possesses an extraordinary gift for turning ordinary phrases and events in a light that illuminates their strange depth.

Beauty parlors, classrooms, a restaurant after hours — these are the everyday places Masini hangs out to explore “the democracy of grief.”

In one poem a woman “wonders / whether anyone uses the nylon sheath / that comes with a new umbrella,” and a moment later we look up to realize she’s talking about the “flimsy precarious parasol of thought” that keeps tragedy at bay.

Errands

I tried to ignore her, pleading old woman leaning on a tree guard
holding out a plate. I had no cash. It was hot. Late. So much to do.

Laundry, library, pharmacy, pet shop. I was lonely and limping,
my bags were tangled, and my friend had just died.

It was a sparrow — struggling, dust-brown, size-of-a-baby’s-hand
shudder of feather stuck to a glue trap.

Please, she said, help me. She was shielding the bird
the way you hold your hand around a lit candle. Never touch a bird,

I learned as a girl. I dropped the bags. I touched the bird,
the beating chest feathers, tried to peel the trap from its twiggy

leg, slowly, the way you ease a Band-Aid off. The bird — I barely saw it —
shot up, swooped up, up into the tree, onto the fire escape,

the pet store sign swinging above us, then — gone!
A residue of feather stuck to the trap. We saved her,

the woman said. She touched my arm. I’m almost blind, she said.
She must have heard the bird, felt for the sound under the parked car.

How long had she knelt there, waiting, between the tree guard
and parked car, how had she felt for it among the cigarette butts

and gutter trash? How had she heard it above the racket of traffic:
Honeycrisps and Pink Ladies had rolled out of my grocery bag

and lay, shining, on the late sidewalk. Days I’d been waiting for a sign —
which might be why I thought of Jon. How busy the dead must be

at the beginning of being dead. So much to do. Even after you die.
So much we need you to do.

                        for Jon Tweedy, in memoriam

Excerpted from “Did You Find Everything You Were Looking For?: Poems.” Copyright © 2026 by Donna Masini. Used with permission of the publisher, W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. All rights reserved.

The Writing Life

Last night on Martha’s Vineyard, I finally got to talk with the man who wrote the first novel I ever reviewed: Richard Russo.

Back in 1997, I was teaching English in St. Louis when a former student’s mother suggested I try writing book reviews. I bought a copy of Straight Man, wrote it up, and sold the review to The Christian Science Monitor.

The book literally changed my life. It was a great joy to tell him so in person.

Russo was on the island to talk about his career and his new novel, Under the Falls, as part of the Martha’s Vineyard Author Series. (Russo and I serve on the advisory board.)

The Series will close on Sunday with Michelle Obama in conversation with Michele Norris at 4:30. Because that event sold out in two minutes, a second appearance was added at 7:30. It, too, sold out.◆

Clippings

• This week’s review is A Tender Age, Chang-rae Lee’s most autobiographical work of fiction, which burns away the sentimentality of childhood (review).

• Speaking of, Christopher Robin was born on this day in 1920.

• To salvage its inane seashell case against former FBI director James Comey, the Justice Department is now pointing to Comey’s 2025 thriller, FDR Drive, in which a right-wing podcaster encourages his followers to commit violence (details).◆

  ---

Now that our president is minting gold coins with his face on them, building a triumphal arch, and sponsoring blood sport in the capital, it seems like a good time to read up on ancient Rome. That’s what I was thinking when I wrote Lessons from a Lost Republic: What Ancient Rome Can Teach Us About This American Moment. It explains how the ancient Roman Republic collapsed into autocracy and how we might prevent it from happening to us. For those who might want to learn more about the messy world of ancient Rome, I recommend starting with historical fiction and an ancient Roman epic. While others are busy poring over Marcus Aurelius’s late-life musings about how to be a better Roman emperor (hint: slaughter “barbarians,” persecute Christians, choose your idiot son as your successor), you can enjoy these books instead.

John Williams, Augustus

This 1972 novel about the rise of Augustus—the man we call the first Roman emperor—is told almost entirely by those who surrounded and enabled him. The transition from republic to autocracy is narrated through (imagined) letters and journals of his closest advisors, friends, and family. Even for those of us who know what happened, the author creates an intimate view of this extraordinary period through the inner thoughts and conflicts of the aspiring emperor’s closest confidantes (imagine a novel about Donald Trump told entirely through Pete Hegseth’s Signal chat and Melania’s diaries, but beautifully written). Augustus is at its most compelling when we hear from his exiled daughter, Julia, who does not get her say in the historical sources, but whose tragic fate is sympathetically drawn in this novel.

Virgil, The Aeneid

There is perhaps no greater Roman writer than Virgil (apologies to another recommended author, Ovid, below) and no greater Roman poem than the Aeneid. It is an epic in the mold of the Iliad and the Odyssey, but written centuries later by a poet working under the watchful eye of a still-figuring-it-out Roman emperor. In the Aeneid, Virgil crafts the story of Rome’s distant past in a way that “predicts” the best possible version of the world he was actually living in. Even if he did not necessarily believe it all, Virgil shaped the story of Rome and Augustus into a masterpiece. If you think you don’t know the Aeneid, imagine the story of the Trojan Horse and thank Virgil. I don’t think he is credited in Christopher Nolan’s Odyssey, but he probably should be.

Ursula K. Le Guin, Lavinia

If you find yourself missing Virgil after the Aeneid, you can turn to this lesser known, but brilliant novel by Ursula K. Le Guin. It is an early contribution to what is now a cottage industry of stories told from women’s points of view in classical mythology. Lavinia was the young woman whose hand in marriage was promised to Aeneas, the hero of Virgil’s Aeneid and founder of the Roman people. Her role in the origin story of Rome is crucial but unvoiced. Le Guin not only gives Lavinia something to say but also conjures her whole life and her world as they could have been or should have been. A brief but essential bit of science fiction provides the marvelous, impossible conceit that gives Lavinia agency she never had even as she remains a character written by a man in the future. She knows what is to come but makes her choices and lives her life in a magnificently described world. Le Guin’s version of pre-Roman Italy is the version I now imagine whenever I read the Aeneid.

 Robert Graves, I, Claudius

A saga of the first dynasty of Roman emperors in all of their back-biting and conniving glory, this 1930s novel inspired a soapy 1970s mini-series that set Derek Jacobi up for a lifetime of wearing togas on the silver screen (I once asked AI to generate a picture of a bust of a Roman senator and it made one with his face). Extrapolating from salacious and rumor-filled ancient sources, the novel offers an inside scoop into the machinations of the first Roman imperial family. It paints a picture of Livia, the wife of Augustus, as someone not to be trifled with, unless you like your figs with a dash of poison. A huge bestseller over the decades, it remains in print. Graves wrote another novel about a different famous family of the first century CE—it’s called King Jesus (good, but not as good as I, Claudius, imho).

Ovid, Tristia (“Sorrows”)

No one is sure what the Roman poet Ovid did to tick off Augustus, but whatever it was, it got him exiled to a seaside town in Romania for the rest of his life. Although a nice enough place, it wasn’t Rome, and Ovid never stopped complaining about it or trying to get the emperor to let him come home. The Tristia is a series of poems describing his exile and making a case for forgiveness. It even includes a poem that addresses the book itself, telling it how to present itself when it gets to Rome. Ovid’s Tristia is less famous than his magnum opus, the Metamorphoses, but if you want to know what it is like to be a once-famous artist who gets on the wrong side of an autocrat, this is for you.

__________________________________

Lessons from a Lost Republic by Michelle Berenfeld is available from Spiegel and Grau.

Nature, Published online: 11 August 2026; doi:10.1038/d41586-026-02431-6

Bad habits and secret pleasures.

AUGUST 4, 2026

Confession: When we thought about what we wanted to ask our writers this summer, our desires immediately turned to the gossipy, the secret, the lurid. What was it that they were not telling us? What might they not even be telling themselves?

The editorial process is, of course, set up to root out any misdeeds. Every piece of writing you read in our pages has been copy-edited, fact-checked and carefully scrutinized. Any expression of fault — a correction or apology — is the source of great embarrassment.

And yet, as we put together this series of essays, we wondered: Is there value in occasionally stepping out of line? Could it be that, in a world that is always pushing us to conformity and similarity, a little sin here and there is the ultimate sign of individual spirit? Seven of our contributors gamely shared (some of) their secret sins.

At the age of 13, I became addicted to stealing from other writers. It is what I call literary kleptomania. It started after I fell in love for the first time. She had green eyes, and I didn’t know what to do with the hungry fire inside me, so I fell ill with a fever. My grades were declining. My grandfather visited me, checked my temperature, and left a small book next to my bed. It was a study of Abu Nuwas, an Arabic poet (c. 756–814) famous for his poems on alcohol, love, homosexuality, and other sins.

In bed, with a new notebook, I started to copy the lines of poetry that drew me in. I recovered from the love fever in a week. But I never recovered from my addiction to copying the work of other writers. I would go to the library and wander around, flipping through the books, not looking for something to read but for the jewelry hidden inside them. Sometimes it was a paragraph written in a style that was new to me, sometimes a sentence that blazed, sometimes a single word I was learning for the first time. I never cared about ideas, or plot, or themes. They were pebbles on the road; the true hidden diamonds were the words and phrases whose  true power was hidden. Look, for example, at this jewel that I stole recently: “Pods of the laburnum at nine in the morning.” Because of it, I learned about the beautiful tree Laburnum, and its golden flowers in spring, which become pods in autumn, perfect as a metaphor or something to recycle to write a colorful picture. I will not tell you, of course, who I stole from, although any reader of American poetry might recognize her in those lines.

There is a legend about Abu Nuwas. He went to a master and asked to be taught. The master told him to go and memorize a thousand lines of poetry. He spent a year doing it, then returned. The master said: "Good. Now forget them. If you can, you will be a poet." That is what I have been trying to do all these years in Arabic and English. I convince myself that I forget what I memorize, but ghosts of writers and people I stole from keep chasing me.

I am a thief, good at hiding what I take, memorizing it, until it flows in my bloodstream, so no one can tell where the blood comes from, or which writers I stole from. Still, in most of my books, I have a list of writers that I stole from, to thank them.

—Ahmed Naji

My biggest literary sin is probably that I don’t like full stops, in fact I don’t use them at all if I can avoid it, really, I’m a comma girlie, my sentences go on and on, both when I write and when I speak, and sometimes I completely forget what I’m talking about as I’m talking, since I’m also fond of the occasional aside, especially a very long one, to the point that everyone including me loses the thread, because fundamentally I write the way I speak, and I speak the way I think, I don’t have the filter that full stops represent, I can’t tell where one thought ends and the next begins, until sometimes my editor pleads with me to add a full stop, like she’ll say you’re moving too fast here, Anna, and then I listen, because I have great faith in authority. And I try to remember it for the remainder of the text. That I’m supposed to take it slow, or, alternatively, at least, to rotate between short and long sentences. But then I get carried away again, fingers flying across the keyboard, like that time I had a manic breakdown while I was writing a book, when I felt at my most brilliant and I was comparing myself to Jesus and I think maybe also Aristotle, a bit, and I do remember some sort of long argument about why the most logical thing to do was to stop smoking without any help, because that’s what Jesus would have done, given that nicotine gum didn’t exist in his day, but in the end I wasn’t able to quit cold turkey, and people continued to try to teach me to use full stops. Sometimes I do.

—Anna Juul

The literary sin I want to confess (to the internet?) is that I’ve stopped unquestioningly trusting an author’s vision. I want to let them carry me into their story. But I find myself throwing a book on the floor as soon as a flourish in a sentence feels unearned or the writing contrived. Suddenly, I no longer trust the way the author deals with grief, marriage, breakups, unemployment, politics, or anything at all. 

It is an insane way to react to prose. Prose has sloppiness built in, it’s a loose art form. You cannot expect truth at all turns. Sentences are prepared every minute like sandwiches at delis. When I reread Balzac or Woolf I find so many dishonest things, instances where they have twisted an obvious reality in service of some kind of cohesive moral meaning. Yet these authors have raised me, and I’m happy with the result.

But I can no longer delve into novels that I feel have betrayed the bizarre unilateral trust I had in them — and yet I’ll spend weeks on a page I like, and read it aloud to friends, and worship it like you worship a bakery, or a grandmother, and be content.

I’m not proud of this. It’s not healthy. And besides, what am I really looking for — poetry?

—Francesco Pacifico

In the English-speaking literary circles, I often hear that writers should “show not tell.” This expectation is not as present in my literary world (I write mostly in French), but even so, I’ve noticed a growing appreciation of efficiency. Sentences are praised when they are ciselées (“chiseled”) — an adjective French literary critics over-use to describe any good sentence. Characters must be coherent; plots must be tight and any gaps in the plot must be patched. As if a short story or novel’s natural destiny is to become a well-crafted miniseries.

In my novels, characters plod through their lives. They are opaque to the narrator, to the reader. So often, they explain things to themselves. If they fall in love, they analyze the phenomenon until they exhaust it. If they’re sad, ditto. This is not as a gratuitous literary gesture; it’s because I think we are mostly opaque to ourselves and the written text feels like one of the only places where this opacity can still exist.

Instead of going straight to the point — or even having a point — a novel should meander with its characters, look for and fail to find explanations. The most compelling narrators often think they are telling a story but are in fact hapless as the narrative slips through their fingers.

Writers manipulate a cumbersome, reluctant material. Something happens when stories resist their forward momentum and characters resist their writers. Sure, we can hammer language into efficiency, but it doesn’t always yield. It’s unwieldy and it’s this unwieldiness I love.

Don’t get me wrong. I love compelling and exciting stories. I do not think that one type of literature is better than another, just as I would never consider inaccessibility for its own sake a virtue. But I also love stories that can only exist as texts, because they explore the singular features of this weird, inefficient, awkward art form of ours, because they stubbornly tell and don’t show.  

—Karim Kattan

I recently copyedited the first draft of my second novel, before a professional copyeditor got their hands on it. I did this because I vividly remember getting my first book copyedited and having to suffer the humiliation of someone else gently pointing out that  I had used several words over and over in the manuscript. “Trudge,” “unpleasant” and “lightly,” for instance, had all overstayed their welcome. Ever since, I have been on high alert for repetitions. And when I come across one, all too often I find myself sidling over to Google to ask it for a list of synonyms.

Could I think of my own list of other words for “to stare,” for instance? Of course I could. But for whatever reason, this is the one area of my writing where I am apparently happy to outsource the creative process. Perhaps if I were flitting to a bookshelf in these moments and taking down a copy of Roget’s Thesaurus I might feel less grubby. I would be using a physical reference text, which has a certain literary flair to it. But I don’t own Roget’s Thesaurus. When I need information of any kind, the first place I’m looking is online, because I am normal.

I feel a certain amount of shame about it, because coming up with words is what my brain is for. I know a great many words. There are plenty of them in there. I try to convince myself that there are advantages to my habit. Sometimes I learn a new word, or stumble across an interesting etymology!Sure, occasionally. It’s mostly laziness, though. I am almost certainly eroding some neural pathways by googling the thesaurus, in the same way that using my phone calculator app has slowly robbed me of my times tables. But I’ll continue never to do sums in my head, and I’ll continue to tell myself that, sometimes, it’s all right to choose from a little menu of words brought to me by the internet.

—Imogen West-Knights

A virtuous mentor once told me that I should read a work closely to the end before translating it — to be sure I wanted to take it on, to save myself the trouble of going back over repeated words, motifs and spellings, and to establish the right tone from the start. My mentor meant well, but honestly, where’s the fun in that?

I prefer to remain as ignorant as possible for as long as possible. Going through a text in murky slow motion, every sentence becomes a little thriller. How will the tightly knotted structure of the grammar and syntax loosen into meaning? What subterfuge has the author devised within a sentence, and what chills of humor or irony will run across its surface as the subterfuge is discovered?

The process of translation exposes how much you miss in ordinary reading, even in the language you know best. (I once reread Jane Austen while cramming vocabulary for a graduate school admissions test and noticed, for the first time, words in English that I'd previously read past as if they weren’t there at all.) The less you focus on plot, the more the elements of language come into view. So, for me, often, a quick skim to the end and then right to work. I go sentence by sentence, squinting into the half-light — looking just far enough into the penumbra not to crash into the trees. And when I do crash, there’s always the backspace key to uncrumple the car. Going backward is a small penance for the pleasure of not knowing what’s around the bend.

—Sabrina Jaszi

Every time I begin writing an essay, I promise myself that I’m going to track my sources. That, this time, I’m going to make things easier for myself by noting down where I come across every single fact. And yet I never do. Instead, at the end of each draft, once the fact-checking starts, I begin the arduous task of trying to remember where I read or heard something. Part of the problem is that a lot of the essays I write emerge from years of casual curiosity about a subject. But the bigger problem is that I don’t care enough to solve this problem.

I have many other literary crimes — an extreme snobbishness about what I read, trying too much to write like other writers I admire, and a habit of googling myself every few days — but none of them haunts me more than the inability to track my sources. And so I am heartbroken when a fact is struck from a piece of my writing because I can’t provide a source. My laziness haunts my nights. Once, I couldn’t remember where I had come across a particular crucial detail about a man I was writing about. I went back to all the papers I’d read, all the articles, all the interviews I’d done, but I couldn’t find it. So I convinced myself that I’d dreamed this detail. That I’d wanted so badly to tie things together that this piece of information came to me as I slept. A few days before the final draft was due, I realized where I’d read it. It was an email that someone had sent to me at 1 a.m., and that I’d read in the zone between deep sleep and wakefulness.

—Carey Baraka

✺ Published in The Dial