Our NYC Editor’s Holiday Wishlist 2018

IT IS ONLY the second week in January, and yet it feels like a lot more time has passed since the holidays. The decorations are still up and we’re still turning on the white Christmas lights in the evenings, glittery in their delicate glass globes and strung along the archway of the built-in bookcase in the corner, instantly making things feel festive. For the past two weeks, it’s been busy, busy, which is the reason why it feels like so much time has passed.

April is the cruellest month because we are stuck. We’ve stopped dead and we’re going rotten. We are living in the demesne of the crippled king, the Fisher King, where everything sickens and nothing adds up, where the imagination is in shreds, where dark fantasies enthrall us, where men and women are estranged from themselves and one another, and where the cyclical itch of springtime—the spasm in the earth; the sizzling bud; even the gentle, germinal rain—only reminds us how very, very far we are from being reborn.

P SENDS me texts such as How much bay leaf (I was making refrigerator pickles) or Do you want a mini quiche when he’s out picking up bits and pieces at the shops. I love these texts, with their lack of punctuation and misspellings, because they very much showcase how he prefers to get things done, and get them done quickly, rather than worry about the small details when he knows I’ll know what he means.

TWO YEARS ago we introduced you to the beautiful holiday decorating trend of sculptural garlands. The trend is still very much alive today, and here are a selection of our favourites this year, from traditional red and green to red berries and black branches, a beautiful floral arrangement by floral designer Philippa Craddock and more …

“Time — a few centuries here or there — means very little in the world of poems.” There is something reassuring about Mary Oliver’s words. Especially in an era of rapid change, there is comfort to be had in those things that move slowly. But oceans rise and mountains fall; nothing stays the same. Not even the way poetry is made.

During one of my more desperate phases as a young novelist, I began to question whether I should actually be writing my own stories. I was deeply uninterested at the time in anything that resembled a plot, but I acknowledged that if I wanted to attain any sort of literary success I would need to tell a story that had a distinct beginning, middle, and end.