This month, while I’ve been doing “summer hours” (meaning publishing once a week instead of twice), I’ve also unofficially ended up using the newsletters I send out during this time to return to and review old posts—and advocating that everyone else do the same.

In last week’s post, I talked a little about how I’ve lately felt (and, often feel) overwhelmed by the amount of content we’re asked to put out into the world.

This feels especially true if posting on social media, Substack, or YouTube is part of your financial existence. We’re asked to constantly come up with something new and maintain our cadence, otherwise the algorithm—or the platform itself—“punishes” us. As a counter to this speed, I’m proposing, and trying to model, that it can be equally generative to take moments of pause. These moments of pause that I’m emphasizing on here, however, aren’t necessarily where you don’t post at all (which is also okay, and healthy!), but moments where you take stock of what you’ve already made, revisit some existing content, and reflect on what you’ve been doing.

Sometimes, that reflection itself is worth sharing. It doesn’t absolve you of the effort or labor of production, but it reintroduces the idea that what we make doesn’t always need to be “new.”

With that being said, today’s post is the monthly advice column, and I’ve been thinking about a comment I received a while back that seemed to bring together a few recurring questions I’ve been getting and thinking about: creative processes, transitioning from—or accepting—a different path than the one we originally set out on, and the practice of revisiting our own work. The latter felt especially fitting for this particular month:

I’m a newer subscriber so you maybe have talked about this before but i love learning more about others creative process—especially the process of transitioning or accepting a different path than what you originally set out to do. Also? I also think it’s fun when people revisit their own work and respond or expound or change their perspective to their old writing. Thanks for putting great work out there it really means a lot to my days 😊🫶🏾 and my own creativity!

Alongside this note, there were two other questions that felt related to its contents and to the premise of this newsletter. So today’s newsletter does three things:

• Reruns an old post, #10 The Art of Responding, in which, following my long-standing interest in the culture and practice of responding, I wrote about the value of good responses: how they carry conversations, how crafting your own reaction is a critical act, and how responding can be a relational mode of thinking. This post was originally published to introduce a (at the time) new series, Re:, which began as a format for me to include things—books, essays, films, restaurants, opinions, events—that I found worth responding to. I then extended that to include reviews, recommendations, research, reactions, and so on.
  I thought it would be a good subject to pair with the advice column because the advice column has served a similar purpose for me: responding to someone and to a subject. (This letter is for paid subscribers, but I’ve linked The Art of Responding, which is free to read, so you can click through to it.)

• Answers two related questions, one is on the practice of writing a good review:

How do you write a good review? Could be film, architecture, restaurant, a city… What are the modes and modalities of observation, how do you move about, observe, and pay attention to details in attending to the thing, place, or idea that you will review?

• And answers another about the insecurity and imposter syndrome that can come with working in a field you weren’t formally trained in:

Navigating a change in career seems to be difficult both psychologically and practically, but what stresses out me the most is what I could describe as “imposter syndrome” that I get when I’m in the rooms, circles, or in presence of the new path that I’m pursuing. I tell myself, had I worked in this field for years since I graduated university like my peers, I would feel more comfortable. Or if I studied this subject in school, maybe I would know more about what I’m trying to do. I can’t shake this insecurity and it’s holding me back. Any advice? —S.M.

On insecurity and imposter syndrome

Navigating a change in career seems to be difficult both psychologically and practically, but what stresses out me the most is what I could describe as “imposter syndrome” that I get when I’m in the rooms, circles, or in presence of the new path that I’m pursuing. I tell myself, had I worked in this field for years since I graduated university like my peers, I would feel more comfortable. Or if I studied this subject in school, maybe I would know more about what I’m trying to do. I can’t shake this insecurity and it’s holding me back. Any advice?

Dear S.M.,

First of all, I’m really sorry to hear about this experience, because I know how “real” it can feel. I say feel because, well, pretty much everything we experience or think we do is, in fact, what we feel. But I also say it because being behind others, or not fitting in simply because something is new to you, isn’t the reality. So let’s start there.

I know it can be hard to trust this, but the education you’ve received or the professional experience you’ve accumulated does not determine how well you will do—or whether you belong—on the path you’re pursuing now. I’ll give you a very honest example from my own life, but I also want to point out that none of the subjects constructed by our education systems are particularly real or self-contained either. You have to move beyond the label of what you studied and start seeing your education and professional life as a collection of different experiences and kinds of knowledge that you’ve tapped into, all of which are (always) in relation to everything else, including your new area of focus.

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Last week, I published “back issues,” which looked back at the past year of Minor Edits. It made me realize that I’ve now published 123 newsletters since December 2024, and for most of that time, I’ve published twice a week. I’ve loved that cadence: it lets me stay in the moment and write from a more raw and immediate place. But the number in that archive also made me wonder: how much content do we actually need to be putting out into the world?

Social media seems to encourage more: posting more often, faster, quicker, sometimes even messier, to not overthink and experiment as you go. This is not a terrible thing. A friend who works in marketing once told me that the algorithm “punishes” you for taking a break, and that when you return, you have to earn back its “trust.” Whether or not that’s actually true, it captures something about the pressure to remain constantly visible.

I sometimes think of Minor Edits as my own little library: a room full of books I’ve read, but not all are read by everyone else who subscribes. And sometimes one does not necessarily need to continue acquiring new books; there’s value that is equally generative in looking back and revisiting an old piece. So, rather than making something new this week, I’m going back to the library.

And this is a very long-winded way of saying: I’m rerunning an old post today.

For me, this is an act of care in a few different ways: self-preservation, because I don’t think we always need to manufacture something new; an exercise in looking inward and taking stock of what already exists; and, hopefully, a reminder that giving doesn’t have to mean giving from an endless supply. Sometimes you can give from a full cup.

And while this is technically a rerun, it will be new to many of you. It was originally published in January 2025, among the first five posts I ever published (!!), which means it predates the vast majority of you being here. It’s also an essay I remember really enjoying writing, on a topic I still find fascinating: a historical and spatial reading of clubs and music spaces.

Before my essay ensues, I’ve got a favor, if you like this piece: share it with one other person you think will, too. You can think of that person once you’ve read this piece—it’s a blend of a history and culture of raves, review of clubs like Paradise Garage, and the art and philosophy of sampling, which includes thinkers like Nicolas Bourriaud and artists like DJ Spoony all on the same page.

We spent New Year’s Eve at Ivan’s house. Ivan and Damjan, friends from my volleyball club, recently moved into a beautiful new place. (Thank you for hosting, by the way—the night was magical!) In their house, they have this fairly large garage space that they initially weren’t sure what to do with. I imagine that, as athletes familiar with the risks injuries, they saw the practicality of turning the garage into a gym.

Intrigued by their use of the garage as a gym, I had initially intended to write about something entirely different today—gym-from-home culture or reflections on the anniversary of my knee surgery from which I learned a lot about patience and consistency through my own relationship to my gym. However, all that dissolved when I started thinking about how I’ve always been a fan of the uses of space that subvert their original design. That, in turn, reminded me of another garage—one that was reimagined, or reused, into something far greater: a club in New York that went on to define an entire genre, generation, and culture. But before that, let me give a bit context.

In 2018, I had written this essay on the underground music scene in Brooklyn, prompted by my experience at a Techno party which got shut down by the cops. It was a party organized by Resolute and their parties were quite famous. Not only for booking incredible names like Zip and Ion Ludwig, but also because of their reuse of vacant spaces all around New York, hosting each event at a different location. For that one night, an abandoned church, a warehouse building, a former submarine plant, boats, gardens, roofs, basements, and storages would turn into a huge dance party. This nomadic character was further carried in the culture in which the locations would be made known to partygoers. Hence the name of my piece, “RSVP for Location,” the address would be disclosed via text message to those who RSVP. There was intimacy and inclusivity in its rawness. An RSVP-only culture might seem exclusive, but it wasn’t; the shared love for music and creative expression was what brought people together. Anyone and everyone could RSVP. These weren’t events you’d stumble upon accidentally. Unlike fixed venues in Manhattan or Brooklyn, which often attracted people looking for a “place to go,” these parties attracted those in search of a specific community or musical experience. It also required a bit of commitment—not everyone was up for traveling across town, or even to Queens, in the middle of the night.

Undeniably, there’s a link between the spatial qualities of these events and the culture built around it—which operated at social, political, and ideological levels: a space of free expression that is also a resistance, to many thing including normalcy or the mainstream. In that piece, I wrote:

The ideologies that govern its placemaking stand against a “discipline [that] fixes”, typified by Foucault as an “anti-nomadic technique” that “arrests or regulates movements” by being exactly what it tries to dissipate: “compact grouping of individuals wandering about the country in unpredictable ways.”

And that essay was prompted by a very specific experience: that one night that the party got shut down by the cops. It was in an under-construction warehouse building in Williamsburg, right around the corner from where Output used to be. The reason made sense: the venue did not comply with fire regulations. (New York City Fire Code Chapter 10 on Means of Egress states “All required means of egress, including each exit, exit access and exit discharge, shall be continuously maintained free from obstructions and impediments to immediate use in the event of fire or other emergency”—I would know, because I’d have to study these as part of my job in architecture). But what followed after was incredible. In the early hours of the morning, as we were being escorted out in a long meandering line toward the exit, a sense of rage, coupled with resistance and unity, took over: chants and slogans against Trump (following his first election) and the police. Yes, we were not happy that the party was over right before the main artist went on, but it was a larger protest against oppressive power. It’s a bit grim that six or seven years later, we are still fighting against those two.

I don’t want to repeat too much of what I’ve written in that essay, as you might enjoy reading it on its own. But I was in awe of how this unwanted ending ignited something in people and for me there was a direct connection between the qualities of the space and the expression of revolt. That is to say, I don’t think this could’ve happened in another, more “uptight” club. In that article, I also revisited some noteworthy music genres and events that emerged directly in relation to their spaces, which began as a misuse of their space. For example, House music gets its name from the Chicago Warehouse (literally a ware“house” building) where early parties of house music were held at, or the first Boiler Room session that was recorded using a webcam duct taped to the wall of a disused boiler room in a warehouse in London. Surely a warehouse and a boiler room share similarities, and to add a third to that mix: a parking garage.

As I was thinking about the gym in my friends’ garage, this other garage—significant to many music scenes—came to my mind: the late 70s club Paradise Garage. Located on New York’s 84 King Street “with a big old ramp and a big ass line in front of it,” this club too was an actual parking garage, in its former life. And the club, in many ways, stood for resistance and the collective and unifying power of music.

A brief dive into its history: Paradise Garage was one of the few places that insisted on staying open during the post-disco era, a time when anti-disco movements—laced with racism and homophobia—were targeting disco’s roots in Black, Latino, and queer communities. This backlash was fueled by fears that disco would overtake rock. The anti-disco sentiment hit its peak with events like “Disco Demolition Night,” a 1979 Major League Baseball promotion offering discounted admission in exchange for disco records. These records were then hurled like frisbees from the stands, and a crate of vinyl was detonated on the field in a so-called spectacle as “fans” stormed the pitch. A disgrace to everything sports and music stand for. Perhaps my comment is too soft, so here’s how Nile Rodgers (from the disco group Chic) described it: “It felt to us like a Nazi book-burning” from this article.

As a demonstration against all this horror, Paradise Garage and its crowd embodied the essence of music’s judgment-free space: “All the mothers’ children: the straight ones, the freaks, everybody in between. It was a place to go and dance and not be judged,” as Bernard Fowler, vocalist for Garage-adjacent band Peech Boys, recalled. It was a sanctuary for a group of people who shared a mutual love for music, and the design of the space reflected this sentiment.

The interior of the garage building was, unsurprisingly, raw: bare brick walls, a simple, large dancefloor, exposed ceiling ducts—none of the extra ornamentation unlike that of Studio 54’s, for instance, that existed around the same time in New York. All that mattered was the music. Amid the rawness and roughness, the only hint of proud luxury was the custom-made Richard Long sound system and a high-quality soundproofing. The thought and money were invested in elements of the space that would elevate music and foreground dancing. Joey L, the head of security at the time, notes that the dancefloor was specially constructed with cushioning and springs because a concrete floor would hurt dancers’ knees. Later, in a documentary,1 Larry Levan’s close friend Michael Sampson revealed that the dance floor was in fact built on “two inches of sand,” which gave it a bounce and allowed people to dance for hours on end.

There was even a special changing room near the entrance. Like as if you entered a gym. People would arrive with big bags of dancing gear and change into their shorts and trainers before hitting the floor.

The sentiments of this space, beginning with its name alluding to the garage building, carried over to UK in the early to mid-90s with the birth of the music genre UK Garage (UKG). The US Garage sound was born out of soulful, disco music accompanied by live instruments. And when it came to the UK, it was faster, rawer, and rougher: “US sound with UK toughness,” as Todd Edwards describes.

Some producers like Victor Simonelli who was just cutting stuff up, making it rougher, and beats were a bit skippier, basses were heavier—and that sound worked really well for the UK.2

Stories about violence on the street or things that are going on in the world made its way into the lyrics that were being chatted quickly, and added a story at the same time.

Most significantly, there was a sense of pride and drive to make it more “UK.” A couple of years ago, I stumbled across this documentary (pasted right above this paragraph) on the history of UK Garage, when I heard MC Viper’s words from an interview: “and we kept it UK.” Where else had I heard this before? That’s when I realized Jamie xx’s “All Under One Roof Raving” was, in part, an homage to the pride surrounding the golden age of British dance music, as it sampled this snippet from the interview, among others. I fell in love with the song even more after discovering that. Interestingly, though, despite all the effort to “keep it UK,” the one thing they could not—or perhaps did not want to—strip away was the “garage”: the name, place, and spirit of where this music was born.

I was rewatching the documentary last night and recognized other bits that were sampled in Jamie xx’s AUORR, like Andrew “Yoush” Alcee & Jeff “Dr. Queff” Allan commenting: “In those days everyone would use a 909 drumkit to make a garage tune because that’s what US was doing, but we decided that we doin’ what we like.” Then I went down a rabbit hole of researching where were all the bits of this track (AUORR) came from.

Apparently, Mark Leckey’s 1999 video art film “Fiorucci Made Me Hardcrore,” which features this sample: “and this is for the champagne crew, we do not need anybody, we are independent.” I started watching Leckey’s film and could’ve sworn that the “ticking” sound around 7:05 was the same one I hear in the intro to LCD Soundsystem’s “Oh Baby.” Of course, I googled that too—I love the internet. There were people mentioning another shared sound between LCD Soundsystem and Leckey’s film. I spent a good 15 minutes going back and forth between Oh Baby’s intro and Fiorucci Made Me Hardcore’s 7:05 – 7:15. If you hear it too, please let me know; otherwise, I accept and agree that my ears might not be the most trained for this stuff.

I really enjoyed my deep dive into YouTube videos to inspect who sampled who and what, but I get that this might not be as fun for the reader. For anyone unfamiliar, sampling in music is the reuse of a certain portion (sample) of another sound recording. A sample can be as brief as a single musical note or as long as few lines of vocals or a complete melody—it can also be manipulated through equalizing, looping, or changing its speed.

The French curator and art critic Nicolas Bourriaud wrote his 2005 book Postproduction. Culture as Screenplay: How Art Reprograms the World in which he discusses “how, since the early nineties, an ever increasing number of artworks have been created on the basis of preexisting works; more and more artists interpret, reproduce, re-exhibit, or use works made by others or available cultural products.” He also coined the term “relational aesthetics,” which refers to the tendency to make art based on, or inspired by, human relations and their social context. In his book, Bourriaud talks about “culture of use” and the practice of deejaying in contemporary art:

In our daily lives, the gap that separates production and consumption narrows each day. We can produce a musical work without being able to play a single note of music by making use of existing records. … Using a remote control is also production, the timid production of alienated leisure time: with your finger on the button, you construct a program.

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His thoughts resonate greatly with the culture of sampling too. Here he further comments on the broader subject:

The culture of use implies a profound transformation of the status of the work of art: going beyond its traditional role as a receptacle of the artist’s vision, it now functions as an active agent, a musical score, and unfolding scenario, a framework that possesses autonomy and materiality to varying degrees…In generating behaviors and potential reuses, art challenges passive culture, composed of merchandise and consumers…What if artistic creation today could be compared to a collective sport, far from the classical mythology of the solitary effort?

Throughout writing this piece, I felt like I wasn’t getting anywhere: I was distractedly jumping from the gym in my friend’s garage to my YouTube search investigating samples. But then I realized I had been getting excited about the same thing over and over again in different formats and contexts: things arriving somewhere they weren’t originally intended for. The gym in my friend’s garage in London, the club in another parking garage in New York, an MC’s words in a Jamie xx track, the police in an underground techno party, a US sound landing in the UK. I find a bit of myself in each of them.

DJ Spoony of the Dreem Team—who opens, ends, and narrates the documentary I referenced here—was playing at the Jazz Café in London this Friday night. I didn’t go, and I’m upset about it. Another resolution/revolution for the new year is for me to learn to go to gigs on my own. Why do I feel the need to always be in packs? Do I perhaps take Bourriaud’s “collective sport” comment too far? How do other people do it? Can it also be a solitary act? Any tips welcome. But if you’d rather join me, let’s meet front left.

I’ve compiled a list below of the works I listened to (or was jamming to on my headphones instead of going out) in the course of writing this piece—a little playlist, if you will. I’ve also created an actual playlist that served as the soundtrack to this essay, named after it. You can find it here. I’ve made it collaborative in case anyone would like to add it and participate in this collective effort.

Thank you for reading!
See you front left someday, or next Saturday,
Melis

The Meet Front Left playlist:

Wookie – Battle ft Lain
Wookie talked about how his music was a “drum and bass meets garage”—slowing down drum and bass and speeding up R&B

Kathy Brown – Can’t Play Around
In the documentary, they allude the birth of UKG to this sound.

Artful Dodger – Movin’ Too Fast

Amira – My Desire (Dreem Team Remix)

Main Phase – Sonique
This one’s for the OG-6 crew.

If you’ve been thinking about upgrading your subscription: I updated “subscriber perks” to include something special for paid subscribers. Moving forward, all paid subscribers can download print-ready digital files of original artwork and posters designed by me. And if you’d rather have a physical poster delivered to your home, I’m now offering printing and shipping with all purchases in my online shop.

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Here are photos of a digital print coming to life for my dearest friend James! This was a custom design, referencing James’s favorite artist Egon Schiele.

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Both my parents work in architecture and interior design, so they tend to have furniture made by the lovely craftspeople they’ve built relationships with over the years rather than buying things off the shelf. Which means that, when it comes to this house, I get to a little more freedom to dream up what I want.

At the moment, I’m looking at bed frames and as my research grew more extensive, I decided to take this opportunity to share with you: Consider it a little catalogue of possibilities if you’re also trying to figure out what, exactly, you want your bed to be.

During my search for the right bed frame, I noticed that I kept gravitating towards the headboard rather than the frame itself. The bed frame in my London flat is also very simple, and, apart from its legs, almost none of it is visible once the bed is made. Which made me realize that a headboard could be a much more interesting design opportunity.

Here’s my selection of headboards, categorized broadly as wall-to-wall, upholstered, vertical, detached, and built-ins, along with a few other ideas to save for later if you’re looking for home-decor inspiration.

1. The wall-to-wall headboard

I’m really drawn to the wall-to-wall headboard because, in some ways, it reminds me of wainscoting: a treatment that establishes a distinct zone on the wall and creates a sense of separation. Here, the horizontal plane can feel like an extension of the bed itself, making the sleeping area feel deliberately composed, also be practical. A deeper headboard can conceal plug sockets and electrical points, which means you can avoid having a collection of outlets and cables interrupting the wall behind the bed.

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It started when I was living in New York, at a place called Jivamukti (now closed) in Union Square. It’s worth explaining what kind of yoga this was, because it wasn’t quite like the yoga class you might encounter at a studio or gym. Jivamukti was a yoga school as much as it was a studio, with a particularly considered approach to the practice.

Classes lasted an hour and a half, with the first thirty minutes or so devoted to breathing exercises, calming the nervous system, chanting, meditation, and a short reflection or discussion around that month’s theme. I remember one class in which our instructor told us about a study where people were given the choice between sitting alone with their thoughts for twenty minutes or receiving an electric shock. More people chose the shock. The theme that month was stillness.

I give this context because there was a real emphasis on settling the mind before asking the body to move. I’ve never quite experienced that again. Most classes I go to begin with rushing onto your mat (if you’re late) or doing some performative stretching (if you’re early) for a few minutes while everyone else arrives. During that period in New York, I also went to a couple of sessions organized by friends and community involving collective meditation, Pyramid, and reiki.

I had not yet grasped what it was supposed to do, or perhaps what I was supposed to be doing while doing it. I would close my eyes and sit still like everyone else, but whatever was happening inside me was not quite it.

The clearest way I can describe the difference between what I was doing then and what I’m doing now is that, back then, I would close my eyes and sort of wait. I would wait until enough time had passed and the instructor announced that it was time to open our eyes again. Now, I feel much more active in the practice. I guide myself back to my body when I notice myself drifting away or escaping into thought. I locate the physical sensation of an emotion. I try to name it accurately. I pay attention to what is actually happening.

I like sharing my experience with meditation not because I’m an expert at it (I’m very much not), but because I’m still close enough to the person who didn’t understand it at all to recognize the difference between then and now. I only partially understand it now, and probably always will. But that partial understanding has been valuable enough to make me want to share the practice with other people.

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It seems that exactly a year ago today, I published a “Back Issues” letter, which was a curation of some of the older posts that had become personal favourites. This year, I wanted to continue the tradition by sharing another one, this time looking back over the past year of Minor Edits.

This feels particularly fitting now, both because I just got back to London last night from a trip and because these “Back Issues” letters too perform a similar exercise: revisiting past newsletters with a little more distance and a new perspective. I also know that quite a few of you are new here, so this is a good way to introduce you to the newsletter and some of what has appeared here over the past year. Or, if you’re a resident reader, it can provide an opportunity to revisit something you remember, rediscover something you’d forgotten, or finally check out a post you might have missed.

A final note of clarification: last time I sent out this letter, a few people told me that they thought I had “back issues.” Fortunately, the title refers to the term “back issues” used for old or out-of-print issues of a magazine—not the (literal) physical pain. I really hope none of you have, or face, back issues!!

Back Issues (Few of my favorite pieces I posted here)

Below are ten newsletters from the past year that I particularly enjoyed writing and readers have found helpful or inspiring. I’ve limited to the past year (since you can check out the first edition of back issues for the previous year) and also to ten posts to give myself the creative power of restriction. They span reviews, essays, guides, resources, and a few things in between.

1. Review of Stefan Jovanovic Kaasa’s solo performance at the Cockpit in London

In my opinion, or practice, there are two kinds of reviews: the kind where you go to a show, event, or place, etc. with the intention of writing a review, and the kind where you go somewhere, really like it, and decide to write about it afterwards. My review for my friend Stefan’s solo performance “When the Clarion Came to Call” was the former. But the show itself ended up inspiring and informing the format and mode in which I wrote the review. Rather than a straightforward account of the performance, it became a piece that responds to and weaves together my own reflections, Stefan’s responses, and our conversations throughout. I don’t want to give away too much because I think it’s a piece that is best experienced by simply diving in and losing yourself in its atmosphere (even through my writing), rather than having me explain what it is about.

2. Essay on the social dynamics of being a regular at a restaurant

My friend James, whenever he visits London, also frequents the same few restaurants. He has a place for Sunday brunch, a place for weekday dinner, and a second and third place for dinners. His habit of always returning to the same places made me curious about what it means to be a “regular” at a restaurant, as opposed to a “casual diner.” This one explores our relationship with restaurants as indicators for our relationship with others and other things. I also included a list at the end of the places I’m a regular at in London.

3. Recommendations on how to put together, style, and curate your home library

As someone who still really enjoys interiors and home décor, even though I’m not practising in the field professionally currently, I put together a guide (?) to building a home library, which happens to be a combination of two things I’m almost always preoccupied with (and good at). It’s an extensive look at what makes a home library personal, how to style it to your taste, where to look for its objects (books, decor, other objects), and ways to develop your own practice of curation.

4. Ideas on photographing print magazines

I’m a fan of print media: books, magazines, posters, flyers—you name it. Having worked on a couple of print publication projects where I had to document them, photographically or otherwise, for my portfolio or website, I’ve become increasingly interested in the different ways of capturing these projects in their physical form. But from the same experience, I also know that when it comes time to actually photograph something, you can suddenly run out of ideas. So, to save you from a rushed scroll through other apps, I compiled a selection of ideas and spoke to the editors and designers of three different print publications I really like about their processes and creative choices. If you’re looking for inspiration for your next print project, check this one out.

5. Essay on navigating a “career shift”

This is a special piece for me, at least in terms of its topic and message, because I feel like I am continuously—and insistently—meandering along a career path that others have told me should remain linear. I’d really like to spread the notion that the “shifts” we perceive as straying from a stable path, at least in the context of careers, are in fact a very natural part of the flow of life. We are meant to explore, change our minds, and change our paths. This is also driven by my critique of how the education system so wrongfully introduces fields as separate categories—literature, history, psychology, philosophy, and so on—that it becomes harder to convince yourself that you can mix the boxes. If you’re going through a career shift and want to know that you aren’t alone in resisting what your educational figures may have instilled in you, give this a read.

6. Criticism + how much I got paid as an editor

A subject I will never miss commenting on and advocating for is the state of editor salaries. Lots of people already talk about low fees for writing and the difficulty of making money as a writer, but I often find that editor salaries don’t enter this conversation, or are even presented as a more stable, viable alternative to writing. There’s an implicit “if you’re struggling financially as a writer, try getting a job in editing” argument, but this isn’t necessarily true: editors are low-paid, too. This piece is a personal history of my experience at the specific journals I’ve worked at—which ones paid, how much they paid, and what I learned from those experiences.

7. Resource on developing research skills

I wrote this one out of curiosity about my own tendency to feel stuck when researching a project or piece of writing. It’s a common problem: we spend hours or even days “researching,” gathering materials and resources before starting a project, and then find ourselves distressed that there isn’t enough time left to actually execute it. Or the research still feels insufficient; or it becomes too overwhelming to know what to actually introduce into the project. My suggestion is to stop seeing research and writing (this is specifically for writing, but I think it can apply to other forms of production too) as two separate acts, where one ends and the other begins. Instead, they can be understood as forever intertwined—two processes that you move back and forth between as a more manageable practice.

8. My recommendations as an editor on how to pitch to other editors

As someone who very frequently sits on the other side of the page, reviewing pitches and submissions and deciding whether we’d like to accept them, I thought I might write a letter sharing what editors value in those pitches and abstracts. It’s a fairly comprehensive guide covering the questions to ask yourself before sending a pitch, how to know where to send it, what works and what doesn’t when it lands in an editor’s inbox or on their desk, some templates, and the basics of the anatomy of a good pitch.

9. Advice Column answering must-do’s and better consider’s

I wanted to include one advice column post in this list although it was tough to pick one. I started writing this column about a year because I noticed that I really value and enjoy the art of responding. It is also hopefully a space for readers to ask their specific questions that they have not found answers to elsewhere. This one shares my experience around what has worked and not worked for me in setting up my freelance practice as an editor.
(When I was checking this post just now, I noticed it’s glitching in the editor but I think it should be okay when you’re viewing, but do let me know if it’s not fully available!!)

10. Review of the film Blow-Up

I don’t write a lot of film reviews, partly because I don’t have much technical knowledge in the area. But I do enjoy reviewing films through the critical, conceptual, and spatial analyses I’m able to make from my point of view. This was also a film we studied in architecture school, so I felt more equipped to review it—and had a lot of fun revisiting it many years later.

Before I go, here are a few other things you might want to check out:

Ask ME Advice Column: If you have a questions you’d like me to tackle in the advice column, you can submit it here and we can contemplate together!

Resident Reader Bulletin Board: If you’ve got something worth sharing from your industry, city, or life, send it my way!! It could be a review, an announcement, recommendation, or anything else you’d like to spread the word about or have featured.

Posters and original artwork: Because I love home decor and know my way around Photoshop (and the rest of the Adobe Suite), it was only a matter of time before I started playing around with composition and designing posters. I made a few for friends, who hung them in their homes, music studios, and bathrooms—and eventually, I decided to make them available to you, too. You can visit my poster shop. (Please send a photo if you purchase and print one.)

1:1 with Me: I offer 1:1 sessions for anyone who has something specific they want to ask, talk through, or get a second opinion on. It started as a way for me to meet authors where they’re at—whether they’re conceptualizing a project, deep in the research phase, or just figuring out where to go next—rather than only editing finished drafts on the page. But you can use the time however you’d like. Fill out this quick form so I can know how and if I can assist you and share a booking link!

Ciao xx,

Melis

I don’t know exactly when the number or proportion begins to tip the balance, or whether there is a sweet spot at all. One couple and six single people would presumably produce an entirely different social geometry. So would two best friends travelling together, or four people who happen to be single, or four people who happen to be without their partners. Every friendship group has its own internal chemistry, and the same number of people can produce entirely different dynamics. I’ve written before about how, for instance, one of our friend group of three feels like it could only function in that triangularity and never in pairs. But there was something uniquely uncomfortable about being one of two single people in a group of couples that I can’t quite put my finger on, but will try to parse.

To understand seventh-wheeling, it is worth starting with the more familiar phenomenon of third-wheeling. Third-wheeling is usually understood as the awkward position of being the lone single person in the presence of a couple: two people who share a private language, a history, a bed, and you. The third person is not necessarily excluded. In fact, they may be perfectly welcome. But they are structurally surplus. The couple is a complete unit; the third person is an addition.

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I’m coming off the back of a camping trip and writing this newsletter while on the plane to Spain where we are headed for a group holiday. We got back to London last night from Cambridge, where we had gone for the weekend to play at a grass volleyball tournament, and woke up early this morning to catch our flight to Valencia, where we’ll be…

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Even in this list of places—like the sofa, the bed, or the park—there are common themes associated with what makes summer summer: rest, relaxation, lying down, idleness, a body of water, and being outdoors. This is obviously a very broad, and also very specific, depiction of summer, but it certainly seems to be the “summer” in the “best summer reads.”

The more I noticed these lists, the more I began seeing them everywhere. Consequently, I first grew irritated, then numb, losing any interest in yet another editor’s or publication’s selection for summer reads, before finally deciding to confront what lay underneath my reaction. Because my numbness was most significantly rooted in confusion about—and skepticism in—what actually constituted this concept-genre of “a beach read” that is in every headline? What did it entail and what made us classify a book as a summer or beach read and not another?

Summer is not one season.

It wouldn’t be a proper critical inquiry if we didn’t begin with what a summer is anyway. I should also acknowledge that, in the process of gathering my thoughts and writing this piece, I’ve been using “summer,” “beach,” and “holiday” somewhat interchangeably. They all circle around the same feeling that, to me, constructs the concept of a beach read, but they are also distinct: one refers to a location, another to a temporal period, and the last to an experience that can be manufactured almost anywhere and at any time.

I do agree, to an extent, that there is a relationship between books and seasons. However, translating a season into a unified, categorizable label is a much more difficult task than these headlines suggest—and perhaps one that is destined to fail. There are, to begin with one, many summers within summer; and there are also many seasons contained within a single summer. Summer can be all the things associated with daylight, warmth, and relaxation, but it can also be dark, lonely, and depressing.

It can carry the feeling of being stuck when all your friends, due to their own circumstances, are able to travel and you are not. Summer can feel overwhelming when every piece of content and every person around you seems to be screaming at you to take advantage of it—and to do so now, before it disappears. And if you live somewhere like London, as I do, it eventually will dissappear as the sun begins setting shortly after lunch.

Summer can feel disappointing as the weeks and months pass and you realize you haven’t made the most of it. It can be loaded with expectations you were never able to meet: drinking Aperol spritzes in faraway towns or cold pints of beer in pub gardens; taking day trips to nearby beaches; frequenting outdoor swimming spots like lidos; bringing your book and towel to the park; or playing beach volleyball every weekend or after work.

“I’m kind of over summer,” my hairdresser, Alessandro, told me yesterday when I asked whether he had any travel plans. I asked him why, and he responded strictly from a calendar perspective: “I just want it to be late September. I just like it more.” But I think he carried deeper feelings toward the associated emotions or memories beyond names of the months.

My aim, however, is not to be a summer Grinch or to prove (reveal?) the negative sides of summer, but simply to expand this singular idea of summer into its many pluralities. And as with most of my engagements with life, I do that through observing and tracing my initial frustration turn into a desire for analysis—and then to dissect, dismantle, and break it down to its atomic level or smallest possible unit until it begins to make sense at a deeper level. Because ultimately, it is what summer represents.

The anatomy of a beach read

I’m a firm believer that books find you, and not the other way around. Part of it is that we naturally gravitate towards the themes and genres depending on where we are in our lives, and another part is much like people entering our lives, books sometimes enter our lives because they have got something to say that we need to hear. In this way, this is my personal take on seasons of our lives seeping into the books we read.

My irritation with the loose application of the term “beach read” began when I saw a piece of content recommending Levy’s Hot Milk as one. The book follows a mother and daughter’s relationship and separation, set against the backdrop of the Spanish coast. The reason this particular recommendation (and I apologize for not remembering where I encountered it) categorized the book this way was precisely because of its setting: it takes place in a town by the beach. Yet, for me, the book is threaded with heavy themes, and I did not find myself feeling particularly cheery or light while reading it—or after finishing it.

Of course, this reveals my own conception of a beach read: that, in whatever definition one chooses, it should be light, cheery, joyful, and fun. It should offer an escape from reality and from “real issues”—which, perhaps, is also the fantasy that underpins the very construction of a holiday. But then I tried to move outside my own assumptions and question myself: does a beach read actually have to be light and fun? Could it not, for instance, be something else entirely?

This is when I began thinking about the three pillars of my own version of a beach read. Naturally, I did not stop at simply naming them; I wanted to dig deeper into what each one symbolizes and the feelings attached to them:

1. It needs to be a page-turner. This is obviously not a unique observation but one that a lot people would use to characterize a book you would take with you on a holiday. A page-turner is, by definition, a gripping book, with an engaging plot or a story: a book that is so exciting that you want to read it quickly. There are plenty of reasons why anyone might want to read a book like this on holiday, and here are a few:
   

   1. The beach is wet, sandy, and oily: between the salt and sunscreen, your pages will develop, what I might call as, a “beach patina.” I’ve always thought that maybe want to finish their books quickly so they don’t subject them to this kind of watery wear and tear, beachy stains for too long.

   2. Holidays too are short. You want to fit every ounce of joy you can into these pockets of life, and your book is likely one of them. No one wants the feeling of leaving a holiday unfinished; after all, returning rejuvenated is often the biggest task—and desired outcome—we assign to a holiday.

   3. You are also likely to be stuck with this book, or with your spare time, for longer periods than in your daily life because a holiday, especially one by the beach, is a place of idleness. No one goes to the beach for a quick forty-minute stop. You will likely spend hours there, dipping in and out of the water, with your phone’s screen only briefly interrupting the lines forming between your brows. So you want to be stuck with a page-turner.

   
   While I agree with all of this, for me there is another particular reason: reading something—or doing anything—quickly offers a sense of accomplishment beyond the usual meaning of achievement. It signifies that I am doing something with ease: that it comes naturally, without friction. This is something I admittedly lack in my life and am trying to break myself free from. A page-turner allows me to engage in a leisurely activity without the weight I seem to attach to many things in my life. It is easy, and that is genuinely precious to me.

2. It needs to be “light.” I, of course, do not particularly enjoy labelling books with reductive terms like “light,” but part of the reason I am writing this newsletter is to understand the meanings behind these words that have become labels. So I am intentionally using this common descriptor, “light,” often attributed to books on summer reading lists.
   To me, “light” evokes the feeling of being on a break—from the various stresses and strains of everyday life. Much like the reason you go on holiday, you want the book you are reading to mirror that break. It signifies low—or at least lower—effort. You want to be excused; you want to relax and be relieved of your duties so that, even if only for a short time, you are also excused from doing “more.”

   It is like when you are a child and catch a cold: not only do you get to stay home from school, but you are also given a free pass to consume whatever you want. We participate in a version of this excuse in adulthood, too. For some reason, it feels more permissible to watch what we would otherwise consider “trash TV.” We give ourselves that permission only when we are in need of a break. We sit on our couches or beds and binge-watch an entire season of a comfort show without guilt, with the strange feeling that it does not count. Perhaps, for many people, what they read on the beach operates in a similar way.

3. Thematically, it needs to evoke positive feelings of joy and relaxation. This perhaps feels like a continuation of “lightness,” but I want to separately acknowledge this thematic quality as existing at the intersection of two important things we seek: comfort and escape. I am not suggesting that every positive feeling is an escape, but life is unfortunately often filled with negative feelings and not enough joy. I do think we become less confrontational—with ourselves, our lives, and our emotions—when we are on holiday.

   For me, books that put a smile on my face and make me feel inspired (in one way or another; theme is admittedly rarely the determining factor) also bring comfort. And comfort is ultimately what I aspire to find in my holiday time by the sea.

And if I really dissected my own reflections on this invented genre, the anatomy of a—or my—beach read would be:

1. Ease: It has to move.

2. Lightness: Not necessarily in subject matter, but in the effort it asks of you.

3. Permission: It allows you to rest without guilt.

What I find myself wondering after all this is: if these are the things I value—relaxation, comfort, a sense of achievement, moving with ease—why would they not be included in every book I read? Why do I limit these feelings only to the season of summer and leave summer overwhelmed by the weight of satisfying all of them at once? And more broadly, why can’t we explore feelings that arise in summer during winter or autumn?

I am not saying we should only read a single type of book (whatever you’ve categorized as your own beach read). I do acknowledge that we have our own multitudes and cravings for different genres or sensations. But a feeling like “comfort,” a book that will give me comfort, should be in all four seasons and more.

What my friends said they are taking with them to their holidays to read?

Summer months are probably when people read the most books. It is hard to find someone who isn’t taking something to read with them when they’re leaving town for a holiday. With that realization, I asked my friends what they are taking with them for our holiday together.

Jelena:

Most of the books I own are classics, predominantly those of Russian literature. That made me realize that I don’t frequent bookstores as much as I would like nor give myself the space to read something “outside of the box.” For the sake of your question and our trip to Valencia, I went to the bookstore and bought myself three books. Two of those were by Japanese authors, coincidentally. Yesterday, I read Beautiful Distance by Nao-Cola Yamazaki. I was touched by it. That led me to decide to bring Butter by Asako Yuzuki to Valencia. I’ve heard of this book many times - the good and the bad. As a fan of true crime and a feminist, I think that this may be an interesting, stimulating read for me while surrounded by my friends, sea, and love. And I may learn something new about cooking (a skill I am patiently developing).

Jelena’s response made me think about how the books we bring on holiday are also chosen specifically for those occasions—like a destination read. You don’t simply bring whatever’s in your library or current read but you intentionally choose one one or even go shopping for your specific beach.

Unless if you’re like my other friend Laura, who said that she is taking this book on “finance” because she finally would like to “finish” it. (Also it’s Laura’s birthday today, happy birthday Laura!!) Although they appear as opposite of ends of the reading spectrum (purchasing something new versus finishing an existing one), they do evoke similar feelings associated with rest and reset.

When we were talking about how most people including myself tend to buy or bring a different book than what they’ve been reading at home, Laura brought up an interesting comparison: “Also, why do we have a different holiday clothes?” She observed that people tended to have a different style on holidays. Most people bring their nicest or at least slightly different clothes: maybe more chic, or more fun, or more colorful (if, like myself, that’s not your typical wardrobe and you’ve now got a pair of neon orange shorts in your luggage)—or more flary, daring, courageous.

And I say again: If all of these are what brings us joy, why don’t we wear, read, and be in the same way in our regular—Winter, Fall, or Spring—lives? Are we holding back on a life where we can experiment more, try different styles, and be freer in our expression of our selves and our tastes?

Ivan:

I’ll 100% buy a magazine (National Geographic) which is what I usually do when I get to Spain (for the language)

I asked him why:

They are short articles (15’), which means I don’t need hours to sit. I can read one today, then another in two days, without the need to remember where I was. Also the topics tend to be diverse, as well as interesting (to me), and sometimes even just good conversation starters… But worst case, they give me hints to make an impression of knowing a lot while I might not 😁

I think Ivan’s response is quite interesting because while it proposes a different format (a magazine as opposed to a book), it still maintains the core principles and feelings that I outlined: being able to move through quickly, dipping your toes into different areas—experiencing and experimenting. And it also prposes a more nonlinear way of navigating our readerly routines that is pretty freeing.

Alice:

Going through a real memoir/true story phase. So recently read Careless People by Sarah Wynn Williams, former director of public policy, about the inner workings of Facebook 👀 and I’d Glad My Mom Died by former child actor Jennette McCurdy. Theres something extra gripping and intriguing about these true stories actually told by the people they happened to in words on a page. Couldn’t put them down. Let’s see if the Memoirs/true stories continue in Valencia 🙌🙌

I suggested Alice to read Lena Dunham’s memoir Famesick because I’ve felt similarly about memoirs recently especially after reading that one. There’s an aspect to these genres which keeps you connected to mife while escaping into someone else’s narrative

If you have a summer-holiday-beach read of your own, and know why it classifies as one, leave it as a comment! I’d love to hear your thoughts!!

Leave a comment

Happy summer (reading),
Melis

Today I’m answering a reader question about how to build a practice as a freelance editor and writer, the must-do’s and , and other suggestions for a joy bringing practice. If you’ve got your own question submit yours through this link.

RESIDENT READERS BULLETIN BOARD
Also celebrating one thousand subscribers to this newsletter! In knowing that a thousand people receive these emails in their inboxes, I’m also thinking about good and fun ways to put this reach into use. Which is why I’ve created a digital bulletin board:

If there’s anything going on in your world, industry, or city that is worth mentioning like a salary that shouldn’t be that low or an event you’re organizing you want more people to hear about, or anything good or bad you’ve discovered (a book, a bottle, a spot?) share with me and I’ll share with the rest of the rest of the readers here.

If you want to check out previous Ask Me posts, there was this one on building a reading practice, if you want to read about how to get to the root of the underlying anxiety behind performing intelligence, read this one or how to avoid making a habit out of relying on AI, you can read this one.

If you’ve always wondered something that isn’t included in the previous posts, you can ask your own here. If you have specific and more personal questions you can also book a 1:1 session with me.

How to build your practice as a freelance editor and writer? Looking back to your experience, what would be your must-do’s, better consider’s, other suggestions for a joy bringing practice? —Denim

Thank you, Denim, for bringing this thoughtful question that I wished more people asked and answered when I was developing an interest in and starting out in this area. This is also something I’m consistently engaged with so I’m excited to flesh it out. I like your structuring of “must-do”s and “better consider”s, so I’ll adopt that as a format in addition to sharing a wider point of view and reflection.

I also identified different strengths were: I advised a friend in early stages of him building a new company/brand because he needed someone with some knowledge on theory but also someone who could pick a good typeface—which coincidentally are though two separate things, they were also two things I was good at.

“Must-do’s”

First of all, building a freelance practice as an editor and writer, from my experience, does really take some time. For editing, if you don’t already have experience being part of a journal or magazine, I would advise you to first reach out to some publications you like and would want to work with. This way, you can gain some experience around managing and navigating the editing process as well as exposure to different authors you get to work with.

If you do have that, decide who and what kinds of writing you would like to work with. Do you enjoy editing essays or longer form book projects? Do you like academic, research-based, or culture writing or which disciplines you have more interest and expertise in? When you have these ideal clients and projects in mind, try to see where you can find them

You can join Editorial Freelancers Association or Publishers Marketplace. I am a member of the former, it is yearly paid membership, and it has a lot of free resources in addition to forum for questions or discusssions. Many authors who are looking for developmental and line editing also post here but based on what other editors and authors are saying, apparently

“Better considers”

Asking for clarity. Because I’ve done editing and writing as side-gigs for the majority of my career, I had this really dangerous understanding that I did not have to, and probably would not, get paid for the work I was doing. I always saw these projects as prestige or passion projects. So there were quite a lot of “opportunities” that are underpaid or unpaid that I took because they were opportunities, which now looking back, have kept me and writing/editing as side-gigs precisely because of that. Looking back, I don’t know if I can say that I would’ve said no to all of those opportunities but I definitely could’ve, and now do, ask for clarity.

Asking for clarity can look like asking how much you will be paid or if the project has a budget for this from day one, rather than waiting and feeling like you’re being strung along, because someone would say something about it at one point. I’ve received contracts or editorial role and responsibilities documents without there being any mention or indication of pay. And these were roles such as an editorial coordinator for large organizations like triennales.

I gave everyone limitless benefit of the doubt, and had to end my involvement with projects after working for months, sometimes even a year, for free when at the first mention of budget they disappeared. So I would encourage and support everyone to ask very early on what the budget and expectation from them is. If you don’t get a proper respond, ask again; if it is still vague, ask again and also call them out.

Asking for clarity can also look like other aspects of the job like how many hours you’re expected to put in, your title, or description of duties. I once had another experience where on paper I was the “editorial coordinator” and in emails, the people I was collaborating with kept calling me “our editorial assistant.” I let it pass because I thought I did not care about titles, but later I realized that this was an indication of a much bigger issue.

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Today, I’m meditating on a phrase lingering from one of our editorial meetings this week which to me is at once a lament and an open question: “People just don’t want to be edited these days.”

I love when our team meetings have the capacity, and the vision, to derail from things like our publishing timeline and move into larger critical inquiries about the publishing industry and the current editorial landscape. This particular observation launched us into a series of other conversations that I found myself thinking about further afterwards, and that I’m expanding here: What does it mean to be edited? Why are some authors more resistant to edits? Have we created a culture in which writers are expected to produce finished work alone, and experience collaboration on the page as intrusion of their solitude in authorship?

Do people just don’t want to be edited these days?

First, let me a bit more precise. In this particular instance, by “being edited,” we were referring to the particular relationship that develops between an author and an editor, and to the amount of (additional) work an author is asked to undertake after a piece has been accepted. And by “not wanting” to be edited, we mean the resistance an author can have toward specific editorial asks and inputs, like the questions in the margins, suggestions in line, requests for clarification or restructuring, and so on.

To me, if this claim is true, if people really don’t want to be edited anymore (these days), then I can think of roughly two to three reasons.

The first has to do with how little exposure most people have to editing as a practice that is rooted in the education system. Think, for instance, how many times as a student you had to write an essay and how many times you actually received feedback rather than submitting it to receive a grade. The education system teaches us to write, but not writing or how to write.

The essay itself is treated as a terminal object, an evidence of thought, and not a site of revisions, questions, or refinements. In other words, you could also ask, how often did you experience writing as not a solitary or singular process but a collaborative one shaped by input, feedback, and exchange.

The second has to do with the vast differences in the extent of editing across publications. If your work has never been offered any substantial, developmental editing before being sent straight to copyediting (which unfortunately happens) or worse, if you have encountered editors who make changes without any clear intention or understanding of your piece (which also happens), then you might be genuinely shocked when actual, thoughtful, good editing happens to you. I won’t name names, but I do have one question: what happened to your (editorial) generosity?

If you don’t want to read further, I’ll save you a paid subscription of £6/mo and £60/year and give you the thesis now: we need editorial theory and practice in the education curriculum, and there’s a lot of bad editing (and bad editorship) out there in existing publications.

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A bit of backstory: Years ago, during Covid, I decided to put my graphic design skills to use. Driven by a deep love for interiors, art, and visual design, creating posters became a creative outlet and a way to style my and others’ spaces. Eventually, I started making custom designs for friends based on the artists, books, and media they loved. For my close friend James’s birthday, knowing Egon Schiele is his favorite artist, I designed a custom piece just for him. It has traveled with him to every house and across the ocean since; I don’t think anything else has made me happier than seeing the joy on someone’s face after receiving something made specifically for them.

Here are photos of the digital file and how it looks like in print:

So I’m bringing that feeling back (for myself and others).

I used to run an online shop where I sold both physical prints and digital files—complete with printing instructions so international customers could get them easily without the high shipping costs. Now, I’ve launched a brand-new online shop where you can purchase my initial digital selection. I have an archive of close to a hundred designs and plan to keep creating more. To kick things off, I’ve added three of my personal favorites as digital downloads straight to the subscriber perks page. Which means, if you’re a paid subscriber, you can get them instantly for free:

Subscribe now

The worlds of World Cup, or the “Model World.”

After a quick drink at Kiki’s Sports Bar in Clerkenwell with my friend Ipek, I spent last night watching the final of the World Cup with three humans and one dog at our friend Sinan’s house. Sinan made us delicious homemade Turkish food. Together, we marveled at the attack attempt statistics, criticized the halftime show for being far too American, and debated whether we, as Türkiye, would ever get a chance to experience this kind of football joy.

Our stream (BBC) was a little delayed, our friend Ozan became a prophet. Hearing cheering from a neighboring building, he yelled to Sinan, who was in the kitchen: “Sinan!! Come back quick, they’re about to score a goal!!”

That goal was ultimately overturned, but this sudden spoiler forced us to question the entire remaining part of the game: “Why did we get excited anyway? We know it’s not going to be a goal because the neighbors didn’t cheer.” But then, we never really heard the cheers again anyway—either because they were actually supporting Argentina and were reacting to the decision to overturn the goal (which would imply our stream was more than a minute behind), or because they simply fell asleep. Both felt like entirely fair responses to last night’s game.

The spoilers, for me, did not end there. Ipek also volunteered a massive one for the final season of Succession. The weird thing about spoilers is that you never have access to the full truth. If it concerns a character dying, you don’t entirely know at what point or how it happens. Yet, you still feel an incredible desire to Google it while simultaneously telling your source to hush.

When we first sat down in front of the TV, I told my friends about a prediction I read in Vanity Fair. Their psychic had predicted in a print issue back in late June that Spain would win and Argentina would be a close second—even while live prediction markets were heavily favoring France. My friends asked what the psychic said, and I, in complete seriousness and trust, asked, “Do you guys want to know?”

Predictions, speculations, and a barrage of spoilers have completely overhauled the discussions around this World Cup. I was checking Polymarket right before the match and was so tempted to put a bet down on Spain winning. I retracted, even though I was highly confident they would win, thinking it would be “bad money.”

Knowledge, it seems, has always been power. But last night, I also learned that Donald Trump’s social media company is considering charging a $100,000 monthly fee for priority access to his posts. Trump’s tweets have significantly triggered massive fluctuations across global markets, leading to accusations of insider trading. This new service, called “Truth API,” would allow proprietary trading firms and hedge funds to pay huge sums for an ultra-fast data feed, because every millisecond counts when reacting to market-moving news.

This adds a hyper-commodified layer to the concept of a “prediction market,” exposing the true meaning behind this shield word: it isn't about guessing; it is essentially about buying knowledge of something that will affect the market before anyone else learns it. Informational power has never been marketed quite like this. It is no longer about who reads more, but who has the capital to buy the feed first. It completely bypasses what I consider to be the traditional sequence of what a prediction market would be—where you acquire information, form a prediction, and win. Instead, it takes you straight to the winning. You spend money to make more money. Sound familiar?

From the standpoint of a regular user like you and I, there is entertainment in predicting the world, and of course, the potential to make money without necessarily having to understand the complex economics behind it. That is exactly how platforms like Polymarket and Kalshi operate. But then there are those who pretty much construct that reality and the very object of the bet. They’ve found the fastest way to win without "gambling," per se, and have turned that manipulation into a market itself.

When I was in high school, I was part of this club called Model United Nations (MUN). It is exactly what the name suggests: a miniature setup made to resemble the United Nations where students participate as delegates of assigned countries to discuss world issues. We attended conferences across different schools in Istanbul as well as abroad. I remember traveling to The Hague and the U.S. for international events where high schoolers like me dressed up to pretend to be world leaders. To analyze diplomatic and international relations, we drafted resolution papers and amended position papers during our sessions.

Modeling something is highly useful because we need a direct, immediate experience with complex systems to truly understand them. Think of an architectural model: once you can hold the building in your hand, you understand proportions, spatial dynamics, and programmatic relationships much better. It becomes graspable.

In Model UN, you also see exactly how power operates on a micro-scale. You learn how much your personal affinity for a friend affects your vote on their amendment, or how infuriating it is that someone can veto a collective decision simply because of the random country they were assigned and you weren’t.

This is how I experienced the World Cup from the beginning. I rooted for Egypt against Argentina, Norway against England, England against Argentina, and ultimately, Spain against any of the final four—but especially Argentina. There is a very neat logic that people who are politically and critically aligned tend to follow.

I hear murmurs that we should “keep politics out of sports” because it ruins the football and the fun. I am genuinely unsure what those people are talking about. How could you possibly keep politics out of a tournament held in the U.S., generating billions from streaming, and run by an institution that picks and chooses host countries in favor of dominant global powers? An institution that stays quiet as certain players undergo far more security scrutiny and travel delays than others? I guess I don’t even need to mention the host country’s president making calls to influence decisions about the game itself.

In “How Worldly is the World Cup” published in the New Yorker a few days ago, for example, Anthony Lane looks some of the tournament’s underdog stories, but concludes that globalization has ultimately made the competition feel less surprising and less truly “worldly.” Elite European clubs turn the best players into global stars long before the tournament even begins. Despite expanding to 48 teams, the World Cup still struggles to escape the absolute dominance of football’s traditional economic powers.

In this way, the World Cup models a larger dynamic: the irony that naming something a certain way does not mean it actually functions that way. This is why it is useful to approach the World Cup by analyzing what its individual components represent. Some people will be deeply frustrated by certain referee decisions and call the game rigged, while others will demand we keep politics out of it so they can simply support their country—or the country they feel closest to—as long as they win. It is vital to pay attention to these emotional dynamics, because they model exactly how a person acts under broader societal circumstances when the rules are in their favor versus when they are not. It asks a fundamental question: can you choose to remain critical, despite the outcome?

It is not a coincidence that so many who weren’t from Spain stood firmly behind the team as a form of solidarity. This, too, should sound familiar. We were all Spaniards on Sunday because of what Spain represented on that pitch. We responded directly to the political and moral stances surrounding the team: the Prime Minister Pedro Sánchez’s ongoing diplomatic push for Palestinian statehood and his sharp denunciation of arms exports to Israel, the 18-year-old sensation Lamine Yamal unfurling a Palestinian flag during Barcelona’s La Liga title parade despite severe institutional backlash, and Javier Bardem unapologetically using the World Cup stands to echo the rallying cry that existence is resistance. It is safe to say that, for millions watching around the globe, Spain didn't just stand for football—it stood for Palestine.

In a different conversation last week, we talked about “role models” in football and their “model behaviors.” It is a common debate whether people with a platform should use their visibility to draw attention to important issues. Some, like me, argue that visibility carries an inherent responsibility. Others believe these athletes aren’t intellectuals and, because they only play football, they don’t read enough to be fully informed. I think if someone is smart enough to play world-class football, they are surely equipped to be curious and read about what is going on in the world—especially when it involves human lives.

Ultimately, it is much healthier to lean toward the concept of model behaviors, in my opinion, rather than elevating people into flawless role models. Expecting Yamal to be a perfect role model might be an impossibly heavy task for one young athlete, and I don’t know if it’s even useful to place an individual on that kind of pedestal. Model behaviors, however, are small fragments that we can witness and collect from everywhere. Model behaviors are everywhere. They are in one small act of a smile, a handshake, or a pin one wears on their shirt. They are found in a compassionate hug and congratulations shared between opposing teams, in the dignity of speeches made after winning or losing, and in the collective choice to boycott and stand in solidarity.

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Some news and a few things I read:

• “Palestine at the World Cup: Everywhere and Nowhere” in the Key (a new online publication by Palfest delivering analysis, interviews, essays, reviews and reportage about Palestine) situates the absence and presence of Palestine amid the environment of distrust in power structures and trust in solidarity.

• “I Won’t Cry for you Argentina” in the New Yorker in which the author, Ishaan Tahoor, finds themself disillusioned after a lifelong devotion to Argentina’s football team by the current team’s dominance, fan behavior, and Messi’s polished, corporate image, contrasting it with Maradona’s chaotic, rebellious charisma.

• The debate around the new rules (advices?) concerning camera angles in women’s sports: European sports broadcasters have been advised to use more “respectful camera angles,” sparking debate over whether certain ways of filming female athletes reinforce the sexualization of women’s bodies, or whether these changes simply reflect requests from athletes themselves about how they want to be represented.

• Speculation and prediction are two words whose presence is really felt in everything I read about or many conversations I have around the World Cup. People are either speculating or predicting to reveal the inner workings of a governing system and its tools of technology, or sometimes just blatant absurdity of calls or decision-making that happen in broad daylight. I also tend to see lots of people tending to describe this as a normal reflection of politics that are also in other and bigger areas of life.

Review of Canary Wharf Sea Lanes

Whenever London is hit by a heatwave—or even just a few unusually warm days—I find myself wishing there were more places to swim outdoors. The city has a handful of lidos—which are outdoor public swimming pools, often with surrounding facilities—but somehow it never feels like enough or exactly what I’m looking for.

I think I’ve been looking for something very precise which is why the opening of this new lido satisfied me in many way.

When I first moved to London, that longing was mostly tended by rooftop pools. Several of my friends had Soho House memberships, so the default plan on a sunny weekend was to spend it by the pool. Over time, though, those visits became less frequent—whether because Soho House memberships lost some of their appeal, or simply because I had fewer friends who had them.

I think I was looking for something that still had a touch with the city, social (whether you’re there on your own or with friends), had some features of hospitality like being able to grab a drink or a bite.

But this search has also never really been about finding somewhere to swim. It’s about chasing an urban fantasy. The fantasy of living in a beach town, where you close your laptop after work and head straight to the water, with a couple of hours of sunshine still ahead of you. The idea that, for a brief moment, London could become the kind of city where an evening swim feels as normal as grabbing a drink after work.

That’s why I was so excited when Sea Lanes opened in Canary Wharf.

I went twice within a week and a half: first on a Saturday—which I had to book a week in advance—and then again on a Thursday afternoon. Beach towns like Margate or Cornwall, two or more hours away by train or car, are destinations. You make a day of them, maybe a weekend, and visit a handful of times a year. You don’t decide to go on a Thursday after work. I like that the Sea Lanes feels close enough to become part of a routine, more like a gym or your neighbourhood café than a getaway.

As for the actual swimming experience itself: Everyone warned me about the temperature. The pool isn’t heated and the water hovers around 19°C, which sounds intimidating until you’re actually in it. The first few strokes are a bit of a shock, yes; but by the seventh, your body has largely adapted to and welcomed the water. One other thing that was a surprise to me were seaweeds thay you can feel as you move your arms and legs

The pool itself is framed by a deck, which is technically an “O” but feels more like a “U” shape. The deck wraps around the pool in a wide horseshoe, with just enough space for one person and one towel without ever feeling cramped. It’s a piece of spatial choreography: dense enough to feel social, spacious enough to feel calm. You also have a nice view for people watching. And the towering towers of the financial district does not bother you but gives you a weirdly nice sense of context.

So a really nice spot to dry off in the sun, read a book, chat with friends, or simply watch the swimmers cutting laps through the water.

Afterward, both times I headed to the clubhouse which genuinely makes you feel like you’re on holiday. I wondered if I would feel the same way if I had visited the club house not after a swim with wet hair and smell of sunscreen, but on a random evening with friends to grab a pint (which you can also do). Or if it was combined effect of that nice drowsiness of having sit under the same and swam in water.

Finally, there are also saunas but for that you have to purchase a ticket that’s a bit more expensive (£18 over £10) and for some reason the sauna didn’t feel worth that extra £8. Maybe because it is still so hot outside and in the fall, it might be a better experience where the water becomes a cold plunge that you dip in and out before alternating with the sauna!

Take care,
Melis

Thanks for being here.

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Every time I need to make a purchase, a small cost-benefit analysis triggers in my brain over whether I should execute it digitally or handle it in the physical world. It’s kind of a friction between optimization and instinct, and certainly a result of the contemporary, modern life. It could go like this: I’m soon to be out of magnesium, should I order online or try to pop in to a store today?

It lingers between the slightly delayed arrival via delivery windows—2-3 business days is the most common—and the immediacy of being able to buy in store but also the uncertainty as to when you’ll be able to fulfill that immediacy. And also, I guess, if they do indeed have that item in stock. Part of me wants that seamless (disembodied) ease of a digital cart, while the other is certain that I’d be able to beat the delivery time and get my hands on the product sooner.

In some cases, I also just want the sensorial experience.

I want to know what you like reading

I’m also, of course, concerned about what we actually lose when we outsource every tangible interaction to a server farm. Digital platforms have trained us to view any physical friction—like standing in a checkout line, circling for parking, or asking a clerk for help—not as a normal part of life, but part of an old, outdated life, and thereby, a system failure.

So I got a little curious about my habits. When or for what I tend to prefer digital over physical, when it comes purchasing or acquiring something new. For that, I paid a bit closer attention to, even audit, my transactions and decisions over the. course of a typical week.

To be honest, it’s such a trivial conundrum—in the grand scheme of life—that I was a bit reticent about writing about it. But then I thought that perhaps others also navigate this territory. So here it goes:

In-person:

• Gifts: Here’s the embarrassing truth: I almost always leave buying a gift to last minute. It’s usually because the event appears too far from the moment I’m invited and this task is always categorized under “leave till last minute because you can think of something better” in the filing system of my minds. Unfortunately, when that happens, my only option remains to be buying online—but not anything, most likely a e-gift card because everything else will also arrive late. Gift cards, by the way, are great. But if that’s the reason I’m buying a gift card, I feel awful. Recently, when I was caught between bringing a gift late (which also is low-ranked in my principle) and buying an online gift, I decided to instead arrive a little late (or you can choose to leave your house a little early) and stop by a shop I like which is on the way. I’m so happy about this decision and I really think gifts should 90% of the time be bought in person. (It’s also kind of fun because it feels like you have no budget! Cause it’s a gift and for a loved one.)

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You're receiving this email because you're a paid subscriber. First, I don't often get the chance to thank you personally, so I wanted to do that: thank you so much for your support and for believing in this project. It genuinely means the world to me.

In return, I want to shape this newsletter around what's genuinely useful and meaningful to…

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Although I’m not actively watching any of the games for the World Cup, I realized that I in fact really enjoy reading about it. Whether it’s a player profile or a cultural, or colonial, history of a country through this event, I felt very much like I too am following football and the World Cup. Which made me think: what does it mean to consider the essay as a form of spectating? How would the experience of watching be enhanced or replaced by reading (and writing) through it?

That thought led me to compile a handful of essays—some recent, some longstanding favorites—about the sporting events currently on everyone's screens: the World Cup, Wimbledon, and, yes, volleyball.

Inside this letter are essays on how beach volleyball connects to the global sand shortage, why soccer remains an immigrant sport with a surprisingly homogeneous fan culture, The Williams sisters’ feminist space of possibility 23m by 8m long, and, of course, Erling Haaland.

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Before we dive in, reminder that to keep investing the time and research required to deliver this newsletter, I’m changing my subscription price next week from £4/month to £6/month on Monday, July 14. If you’re already a paid subscriber, your price will not change. If you’ve been thinking about upgrading to paid, now is the time, as if you subscribe before Monday, July 14 you get to lock in the original £4/month and £40/a year forever.

Re: is a recap of my weekly research, reviews, and reactions, featuring curated short-form responses to culture, politics, art, architecture, and more. Published alongside my weekly essays, Re: is inspired by the culture and practice of responding.

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Today I’m answering a reader question about how to become more specific in writing and sharing five small habits or details to pay attention to. Ask ME (Minor Edits, or me) is a monthly column focused on delivering advice to your questions and existential queries about writing, editing, publishing, or life. You can submit yours through this link.

Before we dive in, quick announcement:

To keep investing the time and research required to deliver this level of quality, I’m changing my subscription price next week on Monday, July 14.

The new rates: £6/month and £60/year.

Want to lock in the lower rate? If you’ve been thinking about upgrading to paid, now is the time. Subscribe before Monday, July 14 to keep the original £4/month and £40/a year forever.

Already a paid subscriber? Your price will not change. You are grandfathered in at your current rate as a big thank you for your early support.

How to be more specific in writing?

Bringing specificity to your writing is rarely about grand stylistic decisions. More often, it’s the result of small writing habits and details that you choose to be intentional about. Once you begin noticing them, they become part of the way you naturally write or edit your own work.

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The relationship between a writer and an editor is an intricate one. It is a collaboration and a conversation—one that needs to be nurtured, built on trust, and thoughtfully managed. Over the past decade of working with authors, I’ve had enough time and enough opportunities to reflect on what editorial feedback is and what makes it genuinely helpful: its architecture, purpose, pace, and style of delivery. That’s what today’s letter includes (five points), and my hidden agenda is to highlight that editing is bigger and more than corrections on a page.

5 NOTES ON GIVING EDITORIAL FEEDBACK

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I finished Deborah Levy’s Hot Milk last night, and it had a rather heartbreaking but also incredibly powerful and luminous ending. Throughout the book, Levy gives you the kind of small, precise cuts of information about the relationships between characters that you feel both encouraged and compelled to stitch together into something whole, a psychoanalytical conclusion of your own.

Earlier that day, I woke up really early (6:48 a.m. to be exact) due to my south-facing bedroom window and the disappointing blackout quality of my curtains. My house was very hot, so I took a quick shower and decided to leave as soon as possible, taking my book with me to a café not too far from where I live and that I know has shade. When I stepped outside, it felt quite chilly; it made me feel deceived.

I got to the café before it filled up and sat down, going back into Hot Milk. It is a book about a mother who cannot walk and a daughter who becomes her caretaker, her extension, and her legs. The mother’s condition is a mystery, as no one really knows what is wrong or why she can’t walk. That uncertainty hangs over everything and holds the plot as they travel to a medical centre in Spain to seek a cure, or at the very least a diagnosis. It explores the themes of codependency, boundaries, and resentment, particularly between a mother and a daughter.

As I continued to read my book, a man sat down at the table next to me not long after I arrived. A few feet away, two families with young children (aged roughly between two and four) were already in motion. One of the children casually ran past a tree they had been told not to run past, and a parent ran after them after calling their name didn’t suffice. It was kind of a funny and an interesting moment to observe: like the kid was testing the limits of their attachment radius. As they returned from this small escape attempt, those of us sitting outside briefly caught each other’s eyes and smiled at the same moment.

The man beside me was on his phone and iPad, but every so often, he looked up to speak to me—about the weather, the A/C unit he had bought for his home, and (naturally) the future of AI in film. If an actor dies during production, he said, they might now be able to recreate them and continue filming. “I’m not against it,” he added, “as long as the family gives permission. What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Where do we draw the line? I don’t think films need to be completed if an actor dies. Human life ends—we have to accept that, not try to solve it as if the work must go on.” He also spoke about Bluetooth systems for air conditioning. He had installed one for his mother, who is disabled and in hospice care. He explained to me that he takes care of his mother.

I heard him say “I’ll let you get back to your book,” which made me feel immediate relief as I now finally felt I had permission to return to the quiet time I came here for. But before doing that, he felt the need to explain himself: “It’s just that I really like chatting with people and with looking after my mom, I don’t get to have that much often.” It was a little past 8 a.m. now and I also felt a little guilty.

I also felt sympathy for him, because it made a lot of sense, but more cuttingly, I felt sad and bad for him and for going so cheerily to my leisure activity while this man was alone and needed someone to talk to. “I’m sorry, that must feel really isolating,” I said, trying to articulate my empathy. “I guess that’s one of the nice things about this neighbourhood and café—there are always people around to be with.” “Yes,” he said, visibly pleased to be understood, “that’s why I come here all the time. In the morning, and again before they close in the evening.”

In that moment, all I could think about was how I felt obliged that I should engage, at least as long as he kept initiating, and entertain him. I understood part of the feeling; I also come out to cafes for the same reason that when it gets a little too lonely and isolated at home, and working from home, it feels good to be around other people. Still, I was beginning to feel distracted. There were now more children, more conversations, more sun hitting my back.

He turned again and said, “I might actually take you up on that offer, if that’s okay—it’s getting very bright here.” Earlier, I had told him he was welcome to move to my table, which was better shaded. “Yes, of course,” I said.

As he gathered his things and sat down, he said, “Sorry—you’re never going to finish that book with me here.” He laughed. “It’s just really nice to talk, and I don’t often get the chance because I have to take care of my mother.” I glanced at him and felt something shifted. Suddenly my sympathy pulled back, like a tide retreating, and was replaced with something sharper.

I had initially felt sorry for him, and wanted to accommodate his need because he expressly shared it, now I found myself resenting it. But I want to finish my book, I thought to myself. And what if I don’t want to talk? What if I came here for silence and would like to sit with my own thoughts, in my own space? What was I supposed to? I could’t simply not respond if he spoke again. And I felt I also couldn’t tell him “I’d actually like to sit in silence and finish my book,” because that would be inconsiderate and rude. After all, he didn’t get to do this often because he needs to take care of his mother.

Now this piece of very private information that was volunteered very early in our conversation felt heavier. It also made me question what was being asked of me: especially after noticing that the two times he apologized for his tendency (and unfulfilled desire) to talk to people was followed by this fact about her mother. Did he want people to talk to him because they found conversing with him engaging or because they were sorry for him? Or, maybe, did he think that no one would ever talk to him unless they felt they needed to talk him? That they were somehow responsible for filling his silence.

I don’t think he means it intentionally, but it carries a certain pressure. When he moved tables, it felt as though the invisible boundaries between strangers had also dissolved. He felt more comfortable, laughing about his apology about keeping me from my book, like almost he means it less now. I had opened a door. I RSVP’ed yes for an initial interaction and now someone had access to my attention whenever they please to lift their head.

Setting boundaries with a stranger is perhaps more challenging. Because there isn’t a ground of intimacy or history to support honesty. It is also disproportionate; whoever chooses to auction their story gets to share it. I know about his mother, but he doesn’t know about my mother.

Saying “no” to someone you know can be direct, because there is already a shared language for it. With a stranger—even one who has revealed something personal early on—you don’t have that. So you choose to be polite, and politeness begins to feel like obligation.

So I sat there for another 10–15 minutes, waiting for the possibility of interruption, until I realized this was no way to read. I wondered if he knew, or if it had ever occurred to him, that someone might not want to talk—or might even feel overwhelmed by it. Or does being in a public space mean surrendering your privacy, agreeing that any given moment, you might be auditioning—and getting cast—for the part to play a subject in someone else’s dialogue that you never really signed up for?

I finished my coffee, stood up, and said “have a nice day” to this man who now looked smaller as I got up. He looked up and asked, “Did you finish your book?” “No,” I said, and walked inside to return my empty cup.

Take care,
Melis

Thanks for being here.

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📁 Get in touch for freelance support on publication projects and collaborations.
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So here’s an unsolicited update from the feed of my Weather app: It’s 28 degrees in Marrakesh, which is where I went for my 30th birthday with a couple of my girlfriends; it is 21 degrees in New York (but only 6:49 a.m. at the time of writing this letter); 22 degrees in Marfa, where my parents and I went for our road trip after my graduation (I went to college in Houston, Texas, and Marfa is a couple of hours’ drive away: if you ask my dad, he will recall it as one of his worst long-distance, or any, driving experiences, as our car floated for most of this drive in the heavy rain in Texas). Speaking of which, in Houston, it is 26 degrees, which is the same as Biarritz and Havana.

Speaking of memories and cities, for today’s letter, I put together every job I’ve ever had. I don’t know what inspired this: perhaps that I’m in a particularly low period of questioning the viability of editorial jobs, and also just watched a clip of a New Yorker staff writer explaining how it took him seven years of getting rejected after pitching a story, and another few years of freelance writing for the New Yorker before getting a permanent staff writer position there.

Moral of the story: romanticize rejection. As they say, “rejection is redirection.” This is a log of different roles and turns I’ve found meaningful, both on their own and as a whole. I think there’s something expansive about looking at them this way and in relation to one another—for anyone navigating life and shifts, or simply curious.

I hope you enjoy! Also let me know what you enjoy reading here on Minor Edits and if you have any questions for the advice column, pop them in here.

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The power of this phrase lies in how it simultaneously reminds us of the material reality of time and exposes how abstract our understanding of it has become. In repeating phrases like “it takes time,” “give it some time,” or “time will do its work,” we’ve not only stripped of the word from its semantic weight, but also made it a kind of cure-all: a mysterious force that heals simply by passing. In the process, we forget to ask what time actually is, or what it means to live through it. “Time takes time” restores a sense of duration to time itself. It reminds us that healing does not arrive all at once; it unfolds through living, waiting, enduring, and continuing.

Yet there was another phrase in this same chapter (and page) that stayed with me even more and that is: “healing takes times.” It is easy to read past this small grammatical shift—as it appears weakly split across the first two lines of a paragraph on page 387—but this pluralization of “time” immediately stretched my perception of it, and especially in relation to the processes of healing.

It communicated that time is not this one long, single, and homogenous period but it is composed of fragments, of times, that contain every attempt, every take, every effort, and every time one has given a shot at that thing. Rather than a continuous stretch, it is a collection of moments that vary in length and interrupted at times. It isn’t progressively moving toward better or higher either. It consists of repetitions, setbacks, and sometimes returns. It can sometimes feel the same or even worse for a while. Healing does not happen in time; it happens through times.

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The plurality contained in “it takes times” reminds us that neither the number of times is predetermined (or predictable), nor are they equally divided, moving toward a steady destination, as the arrows of a clock may lead us to believe. Some times may be shorter, others longer; and some times may feel longer, while others feel as if they have passed in a heartbeat.

What feels even more significant about the distinction between “time” and “times” is also in their semantics: that while the former signifies duration, the latter emphasizes repetition. Like one is asking “how long,” and the other asking “how many.” The beauty of this distinction is that “times” moves the process from a more passive to an active place. One does not simply sit and wait, as if having flipped an hourglass and counting the minutes until “time’s up.” Rather, it asks us to show up again and again: to try, fail, rest, begin anew, and continue for however many times it takes. Because it does, indeed, take times—not one, but many, multiple times. And while that may feel scarier or longer even, it also grants or reaffirms our agency. We are part of those “times”—the one beginning it, ending it, and being in it.

This defines, rather broadly, a nonlinear conception of time. As someone who does really enjoy theorizing and thinking about the conception of time, I want to have a brief segment here where I note the importance of acknowledging that time has different meanings and perceptions—and that they are taught or perhaps imposed on us without us thinking deeply or critically about it.

I have written before about Giorgio Agamben’s essay “Time and History: Critique of the Instant and the Continuum,” which delves into various representations of time and how these differing conceptions—from Hegel’s linear progression to ancient Greek circular models—influence our understanding of temporality and history.

The Greek notion of time, for instance, is a continuous, circular phenomenon. It is symbolized by eternal return and cycles inherent in nature. This cyclical view posits time as a repetitive loop, without a definitive beginning or end. In the Christian era, influenced by Judeo-Christian narratives, time becomes a finite trajectory with a clear origin (Creation) and a culminating end (Apocalypse). This linearity introduces a sense of progression and purpose, contrasting sharply with the repetition of the Greek model.

If you’re interested in Agamben’s book, it’s called Time and Infancy: The Destruction of Experience, as I would not go into the entire discussion here, but underline my point which is that our perception of time influences our relationship with the world, and ourselves. If you view time as a developmental process that is inherently progressive, you’ll most likely be disappointed by why you aren’t “getting better” in your healing processes. It will likely not make sense why so much time has passed and you feel the same, sometimes worse, and only sometimes slightly better.

This is why I quite like “times” as a positive interpretation in our search for alternative diagrams of time beyond the arrow, line, or circle. What would happen if we started considering that it does not take time, but it takes times—attempts, failures, ups, downs, trying again, feeling better, feeling worse, and so on? What if time consisted of periods rather than an uninterrupted sequence? What if each time, you got to walk away with something different, but you also needed to show up differently each time?

I think awakening our imagination to ask ourselves how we understand this thing called time is one of the most helpful things we can do for ourselves in any healing process. Not to be scared by its theoretical magnitude or treat it entirely as an enigmatic unknown, but simply to ask: what does time represent to me? How do I interpret it? How long is six weeks for me, and how does ten years feel in my body? Get a little closer to time, as close as possible to touching it, naming it, feeling it. Otherwise, in the abstraction of phrases, and language, we might lose time entirely.

Take care,
Melis

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