Hazel Wren

Hazel lives in a rented second-floor apartment in a small Hudson Valley town, in a building that used to be a dry goods store and still has the original tin ceiling in the kitchen. She works part-time at a public library and spends the rest of her week walking, cooking the same three dinners on rotation, repairing things badly, reading at a slightly too-slow pace, and writing this notebook. The writing here is first-person diary work — specific small things she did this week, things she keeps thinking about, observations from the block she lives on. There are no productivity systems on offer. There are no five-step plans. There is a person trying to pay attention to her own life, in writing, in roughly the way that letters to a friend used to do that work before everything moved into feeds.

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