This post was originally published on substack January 11, 2026.

Hello dear readers,

As I’m sure you’re fully aware by now, I delight in archival practices that center on mundane¹ life experiences. So it may come as no surprise, then, that I’m starting a new series here, which I’m simply calling “the logbook.”

The logbook is exactly what it sounds like: an account of my days through the month, detailing everything you might read in a writer’s or artist’s diary: where they went, what they did, the existential crises that overtook them—that sort of thing. Essentially, what I’m aiming for is to emulate the entries we know and love from our favourites: Virginia Woolf; Franz Kafka; Anaïs Nin; Susan Sontag.

What it boils down to is this: it’s so important to document our lives, if not to look back on from time to time, then to find little points of connection with anyone else who may read them. We’re all living in the same world, and while it might feel sometimes that we’re far away from others, we’re all still bound together in small ways: through the books we read, or the thoughts we have, or the flowers we spy on our afternoon walk. To document our lives is to remind ourselves and others that we exist—and that we see each other.

Without further ado, our first logbook:

LOGBOOK NO. 01

December 12, 2025: Most of the Christmas presents had arrived by now, and so I spent the morning wrapping, listening to a podcast on owls while I worked. Each year I tell myself I’ll buy less and make more, but this year turned into buying more and making more. Wanting to do less has nothing to do with the cost of Christmas, more with the fact that I always get overexcited and get too many things for too many people. I would love to be the kind of person who buys one thing for each person, though I doubt I ever will be.

December 17, 2025: Morning was a flurry of last-minute assignments² and some tidying around the house. Blessedly, this was my last day of marking for the term, and so by four o’clock I’d set my away message for the next few weeks. To celebrate, I made quiche with ham and gouda and ate two slices, alongside a mug of apple cinnamon tea.

December 23, 2025: A day spent in the kitchen: baked two loaves of bread to give as presents, then helped A make cookies for a few of her barn friends. Then made peppermint bark for C and prepared a French onion casserole for the evening. By six friends arrived at the door, the house smelling of homemade apple cider I’d put on to boil a few minutes before. Everyone brought something, and everything was delicious. Afterward we wrote down ten hopes for the year, then gathered silently round the cauldron to burn a single piece of paper each. Our last activity was watching The Muppet Christmas Carol³ before everyone headed off into the night.

December 25, 2025: As always, a busy day. We opened presents with mum, A, and her family in the morning, and then went to C’s mom’s house for brunch. By two we were at my grandparents’ farm, by far my favourite part of Christmas. Their home is always cozy, but on Christmas day, it transforms; I try not to think of the day when we no longer get to go there. Because Christmas dinner was early, we were home by half past six, and were able to laze around the house and watch Klaus before an early bed time.

December 28, 2025: After a post-Christmas migraine, I was feeling better and decided it was high time to repaint the yellow wall⁴. In a turn of luck, my mom had a can of Dorset Gold in the garage, and I hauled that upstairs to get started. Let me tell you, I’ve never seen a transformation so perfect. The wall now tied into the room perfectly, even making the grey cabinets more than acceptable once again. So buoyed by the change, I painted a bookshelf in the corner of the kitchen the same colour.

December 31, 2025: The morning was a slow one, sewing together the amethyst sweater while watching Midsomer Murders. In the afternoon mum, A, and I went to Aunt C’s to visit family and meet the newest member of the ever-extending family. Evening was supposed to be dinner at a friend’s, but a migraine knocked me out by late afternoon. C went off, and I stayed in, and had the most perfect New Year’s I’ve had in ages. I watched old English gardening shows, finished setting up my reading journal⁵, and worked on a cardigan. I hadn’t planned on staying up for the fireworks, but remembering the previous year’s show⁶, I read until the clock struck midnight.

January 5, 2026: Made an archaic dessert⁷ for A’s birthday—though the jello was made the evening prior—and did a late New Year’s deep clean of the house. All floors were swept and rugs beaten out, but I can never bring myself to take the cobwebs down from the front hall. Later, had dinner of baked potatoes, sausage, and Caesar salad with the family, celebrating both A and our Aunt L. Evening was spent reading Death of a Hollow Man by Caroline Graham, my new favourite author (though I am biased, as Midsomer Murders is my favourite television show).

January 7, 2026: Finally unearthed my current draft, pushed aside for the festivities and end-of-year preparations. Last I worked on it was December 18, leaving it at just under 21,000 words. After a quiet morning of coffee and brief periods of staring out the window at the gathering storm, the word count crept up past 23,000. The plan is to make it to the end of this draft before February comes crawling in.

—Catherine

FOOTNOTES

¹ I know not everyone thinks this way, but to me, mundane is one of the most beautiful things. The way the cedar hedges are pushed in the breeze, or the first sip of coffee, or the smell of your favourite perfume. Mundane is beautiful, simple, flawless; there can be nothing better.

² Not my assignments! Assignments I was marking. The cutoff for handing something in and actually getting a mark was December 17th, so I had a few stragglers to get through before end of term.

³ What started as a knitting party activity last year transformed into what we’re calling Muppet Yule, a mash up of traditional Yule celebrations and a viewing of the film. Just in these past two years, it’s grown into something truly special, and I’m already looking forward to next year.

⁴ Last spring, I painted the closet wall in our living room a pale, buttery yellow. It was a beautiful colour on the sample, but as soon as I’d finished, I felt it was wrong. Standing at the far side of the living room, I could see it against the backdrop of the grey kitchen cabinets, and instantly wanted to redo it. I made myself wait, but I’m so glad I finally repainted.

⁵ Thanks to the idea from a friend, I’ve decided to keep a physical reading journal for 2026—and likely will for every year to come. I’ve filled it in simply (because otherwise I know I won’t keep up), and am already finding great joy in marking down my daily reading and writing mini reviews just for myself. Already I’ve finished two books—it truly makes me want to read more, having this little reward waiting for me at the end of a book.

⁶ Someone just a couple houses over set of fireworks we could see perfectly from our kitchen window. It was the closest I’d ever been to fireworks, and is something I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

⁷ A is in love with broken glass cake, a dessert our grandma used to make before she passed in 2009. For the last ten or so years, I’ve made it for A’s birthday, despite our other grandma always making her classic (and much-loved) orange chiffon cake—you can’t go wrong with two cakes, though. I imagine I’ll make it for the rest of A’s birthdays, until we’re old and grey.

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