Here we are at the beginning of a new year, which means it's time for my now-traditional round-up of everything I read and saw during the past one. In terms of quantity, I had a decent reading year: my final count stands at 23. Of those, most were fairly entertaining, a few were a little flat, and a few were quite good. In chronological order:

The Daylight War, by Peter V. Brett. One of the downsides to waiting until now to write these reviews is that it's been almost a year since I finished this book, so most of the details are fairly fuzzy. I read the first book in 2010 and the second in 2012, and mostly what I recall of this installment is that it was fun and worth the wait. One interesting thing about this one was how Brett went back and provided a more detailed backstory for one of the interesting female characters, Inevera, giving her a lot more depth as well as fleshing out her culture a bit more. The next book is due out in March, with the final one expected some time in 2018. So we've got a ways to go, but I'm still interested to keep reading. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

The Tattered Banner, by Duncan M. Hamilton. I found this one via a Buzzfeed list, which sounds like it wouldn't be a particularly reliable source except that it also included several others that I enjoyed quite a lot. Sadly, I didn't find this one to my liking—the writing felt clunky and the characterization thin. The story follows a young man from a hard-scrabble life in the streets to a chance encounter that gets him into a prestigious fencing academy, and then beyond as he embarks on a career as a soldier and starts to discover some mystical secrets about his past. It seemed like pretty standard high fantasy fare to me. As noted in the Buzzfeed article, there were a lot of sword fights, which I would normally find quite entertaining. In the end, though, I just didn't have a lot of fun reading this book. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Ready Player One, by Ernest Cline. If you are a certain type of nerd, born in the mid-to-late 70's who enjoyed Devo and Atari and Zork, this book is written for you. The story is set in a dystopian near future where the real world is mostly gone to hell but everyone spends the bulk of their time in a virtual reality simulation called OASIS. The protagonist is a teenage boy who gets caught up in a quest created by the inventor of OASIS, wherein he has to use his knowledge of esoteric 80's pop culture trivia to solve a bunch of riddles that will give him the keys to the virtual world. Writing that out, it sounds kind of stupid, and in some ways the book is kind of silly. But, as I said, if you're the right kind of nerd, this book will push your buttons. The pop culture references are thick on the ground throughout the book, often to no particular purpose, and neither the prose style nor the story structure are particularly innovative. But it's fast-paced and quite entertaining—I read the whole thing in two days. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

The Powder Mage Trilogy, by Brian McClellan. This is probably my favorite new fantasy series, in terms of sheer enjoyment. Brian McClellan's debut series combines a whole bunch of things that are right up my alley, some of which I've never seen done before in high fantasy: a pseudo-Napoleonic-era setting; an innovative magic system that, in part, involves "powder mages" who use gunpowder to enhance their strength and speed; a well-developed world history which, of course, comes to bear on the events of the novel; intrigue, war, private investigators, and ancient gods. I tore through the first book, picked up the second the day it was released, and am now impatiently waiting for the finale, which comes out next month. (Promise of Blood: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads. The Crimson Campaign: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

S., by J. J. Abrams and Doug Dorst. I'm not going to lie: this book is a lot of work. When you slip off the case, you're presented with what appears to be a library book from the 50's, called Ship of Theseus, by V. M. Straka. (That author and his works are all fictional.) It's an impressive facsimile, down to the fake library stamps, the old-style binding, and even the way the pages appear to be browning with age. Ship of Theseus is a relatively opaque novel about an unnamed protagonist who finds himself caught up in a socialist revolution that takes him through some apparently Eastern European and South American settings, as well as through time itself.

Ship of Theseus is actually interesting in its own right, reading a bit like a Kundera novel. But the overall story of S. occurs in the margins. Literally. Scribbled into the blank spaces around the edges of the pages are notes between two strangers who pass the book back and forth by leaving it in an out-of-the-way spot in a university library. In that story, a whole shadowy world of international conspiracies, plots, and codes unfolds, as well as the growing relationship between the two scribblers. In this story there are flavors of Borges and Umberto Eco. What makes it difficult is that the notes are not in linear order. As you would expect might happen between two people passing a book back and forth, re-reading it several times in the process, their comments get added whereever appropriate to them at the time they were writing. The book helps you out by presenting the marginalia in different colors, as though the two people were using different pens each time they came back. But it takes some doing to unravel it all.

Ultimately I wasn't completely able to decide whether I thought S. was completely genius or pretentious wankery, or perhaps a little of both. But there was definitely something there, and I think it was worth the time I spent trying to figure it all out. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn. It's hard to know exactly how to talk about this book without spoiling it, even though the book and movie have been pretty thoroughly discussed everywhere else. What I will say is that I was completely sucked in by this book, and the major turn at the halfway point caught me entirely by surprise. The characterization and use of voice were very skillfully done. I'd say it deserves all of its popularity. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Odd Thomas, by Dean Koontz. A co-worker of mine lent me this book, which is sort of a grown-up Sixth Sense detective story. The title character can see ghosts, whom he helps move on into the afterlife by solving their murders, and so on. It was interesting to me to compare this to Jim Butcher's Dresden Files, the other urban fantasy detective series I've read recently, and which started around the same time (Odd Thomas in 2001, The Dresden Files in 2000). This book was more than adequate, but felt smaller in many ways than Butcher's novels. In part, this book feels more like a standalone story as opposed to the Dresden books, which are clearly episodes in a larger series (though, of course, this one is also the first in a series). There was no real connection to a larger, ongoing narrative, which is something I enjoy about Butcher's series. On the other hand, though the story was less grand, that also made it feel a bit more intimate. I'm not sure I'll be rushing to pick up all of the sequels, but I certainly enjoyed this book just fine. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

The Expanse novellas, by James S. A. Corey. Looking back over my archives, it appears that I've never written a real review for any of James S. A. Corey's Expanse books, which is a shame because they're pretty damn great. The main series is four books long at this point: Leviathan Wakes, Caliban's War (which, for some reason isn't anywhere in my reading notes), Abaddon's Gate, and Cibola Burn, each of which I read as soon as it came out (2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014, respectively). (Actually, I read the first two early because one of the authors is a friend of mine, but that's neither here nor there.) The series is a mid-future space opera set at a point where humanity has spread out across the solar system, but as science fiction goes, things are fairly low tech. There's no faster-than-light travel, no laser guns, nothing that's that far outside what we can do now, actually. Several of my friends like to describe it as "mechanics in space." The main series follows the adventures of James Holden and his crew through interplanetary political machinations, war, and even humanity's first contact (by proxy, sort of) with an alien species. It's one of my favorite SF series of the last ten years or so.

In addition to the main series, Mr. Corey (actually a pseudonym for the partnership of Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck) has also (so far) written three novellas set in the same universe, which flesh out the backstories and side stories of some of the supporting characters. None of them are necessary to understand the main series, but they're all fun, and getting the extra dimensions for these characters adds a lot to the experience, particularly—in my opinion—with The Churn. Franck and Abraham started writing these in 2011, but I had let them sit until this past spring, when the waiting for Cibola Burn got to be too much and I had to get a little taste of the Expanse universe. At just a dollar a piece, I more than got my money's worth, and if you're a fan of the series, I can easily recommend these to you. (The Churn: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads. The Butcher of Anderson Station: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads. Gods of Risk: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads.)

*

Growing Up, by Russell Baker. When I was a freshman in high school, my English teacher assigned us an essay to read by Russell Baker, entitled "No More Orange Motorcycles." It's a piece that's always stuck with me, a wry, funny look at the aging process by way of looking back on the progression of Christmas presents Baker received over his life. The combination of wit, nostalgia, and observation in that essay are something that certainly influenced me early on as a writer.

On a whim, I looked up Baker again this past May, having not read anything of his since that one essay, twenty years ago. I was delighted to find that he had written an autobiography, so I checked it out. As it happens, while the book is the story of Baker's own life, the real stars are three strong women in his life: his grandmother, his mother, and his wife. The book covers his upbringing during the Depression, showing how his mother's grit and determination were largely responsible for his success and character. After I finished it I discovered that Growing Up won the Pulitzer for autobiography in 1983, which came as no surprise. It's funny, insightful, at times poignant, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Cibola Burn, by James S. A. Corey. As I mentioned above, this past spring I found myself jonesing for some Expanse stories, since this fourth installment in the main series didn't come out until early June. I finally picked up a copy at a book signing when the authors came to San Diego, and it didn't disappoint. Cibola Burn picks up at a point in the series just after Holden and his crew have unlocked an ancient alien "gateway" that gives access to distant star systems. Humans have rushed through to begin colonizing the new worlds. The first colony is meant to be on a planet called Ilus, but ahead of the official expedition, a group of independent homesteaders have started their own settlement, which predictably leads to friction. Holden and his team are sent in to mediate between the two sides, and along the way uncovers new clues about what happened to the alien civilization that left the gateway.

One of the interesting thing about this series is that each book is conceived of as an intersection of science fiction with another genre. Leviathan Wakes was, in its bones, a noir detective story. Caliban's War was, as the title suggests, a war story. Cibola Burn is a Western: a stranger comes to town to settle a dispute between two factions that represent freedom and order. Based on conversations I've had with friends who've read it, whether this book works for you may depend on how much you enjoy these tropes. Most of the people I know who disliked it specifically mentioned that they tend to be sour on Westerns; I, on the other hand, can't get enough of them. Still, that aside, the engaging characters, tight plotting, good writing, and exciting action I loved from the previous novels is all present in this one. I reckon, though, that if you've made it this far into the series, you're not quitting any time soon. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Winter's Tale, by Mark Helprin. I probably wouldn't have been aware of this book if not for the fact that it was turned into a movie. I haven't seen the movie, and based on what I've read I may never do so (though, Neil Gaiman liked it), but I'm glad that I read the book. In that blog post I linked, Gaiman made a reference to John Crowley's Little, Big, which was one of the best books I read in 2012, or, indeed, in any year. There are certainly echoes of Crowley's book in Winter's Tale—both can be described as magical realism, both are set in the United States—but where Little, Big is more of a fairy tale (or, perhaps, faerie tale) in both its story and its writing, Winter's Tale feels more American. Indeed, as much as it is a story about its characters, it is also very much a story about America, and in particular about New York City. In that respect I was reminded very much of Pete Hamill's Forever.

The story is sprawling and epic, following a number of characters over a span of about a hundred years. Among them are Peter Lake, a mechanic and thief in New York near the turn of the 20th century; Beverly Penn, the consumptive daughter of a New York printing magnate, with whom Peter Lake falls in love; and Virginia Gamely, a young woman from the Brigadoon-ish village outside time, Lake of the Coheeries, who comes to the City to make her fortune. So much happens in this book that I couldn't even really summarize it, but suffice it to say that reading it was a profound experience. The prose is lyrical, by turns whimsical and passionate, often dense but packed with emotion. It's a book about family, love, and an America that never existed literally but still lives in the stories of ourselves. It's a story about cities and justice and magic and history. All in all, an amazing book. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

The Queen of the Tearling, by Erika Johansen. It's funny that in the same year I read Ready Player One, the book that would first come to mind when I thought of "fan service" would be this one. To be sure, The Queen of the Tearling had a lot more going for it than just that, but as I read it, I did often get the feeling that Johansen was reaching out to "her people." Which, as one of those people, I both appreciated and felt was a little silly. The titular queen is a young woman named Kelsea who has just ascended to the throne after having been raised in seclusion for her entire life. Knowing nothing about her mother and little about the recent history of her country and its relations with its neighbors, she has a lot to figure out in a hurry, and with little more than heart and good instincts, she starts on her journey toward becoming a legendary leader. That fate is foreshadowed by an interesting framing device: each chapter begins with an excerpt from an in-universe historical text written in the future of the events of the novel. It feels like a debut novel (which it is) in that the writing has both a certain exuberance as well as a few hints of inexperience, a few clunky bits. But overall I found the book entertaining and I'm interested to see where the series goes. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Skin Game, by Jim Butcher. This being the fifteenth novel in Jim Butcher's Dresden Files series, anybody who is in a position to read this book more or less knows what she's in for. So rather than write a lengthy review, I'll just say that I enjoyed this book pretty much exactly as much as I enjoyed all the rest of them, which is to say: a lot. Butcher doesn't seem to be losing any steam, and if and when this series ever does conclude, I'm going to be sad. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Captain Vorpatril's Alliance, by Lois McMaster Bujold. It's an interesting bit of juxtaposition that the very next book I read after Skin Game was Captain Vorpatril's Alliance. Both are the fifteenth installment in a long-running, best-selling series. However, where Jim Butcher's fifteenth Dresden novel is just as entertaining and fast-paced as the other books I love in that series, Bujold's fifteenth Vorkosigan book is pretty flat. I'm hoping this isn't a pattern for the future of the series, because the previous one—2011's CryoBurn—was also kind of disappointing. My complaint about that one was mainly that it felt shoehorned into the series, and didn't really need to include the main character. Unfortunately, Captain Vorpatril's Alliance didn't improve much by mostly leaving out that character. The story follows series protagonist Miles Vorkosigan's errant cousin Ivan Vorpatril as he unwittingly gets caught up in a coup between two Houses of the pseudo-crime-syndicate society of the Jackson's Whole system. Unfortunately that description sounds a lot more exciting that the story actually is; it mainly turns out to be a light romance between Ivan and the "princess" he "rescues." This isn't a particularly new sort of story for Bujold, who has done similar things in her Sharing Knife series and even in some of the earlier Vorkosigan books, notably in 2000's A Civil Campaign. Though, it's worth noting that that last was one of my least favorite books in this series. What I tended to enjoy about this series was the frenetic genius of Miles, the action and intrigue, and the exploration of different societies. There is some of that here, but the Jackson's Whole culture just isn't interesting or alien enough to warrant much interest, and for the most part there isn't much in the way of plot to Captain Vorpatril's Alliance. I'm sure I will pick up the next book whenever it happens to come out, but at this point I mostly hope Bujold finds some new direction to go in. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

A People's History of the United States, by Howard Zinn. Howard Zinn's revisionist history of the US is a pretty famous and influential book at this point, so I'd been meaning to read it for some time. Note that I use the term "revisionist" not in a pejorative sense, but rather to indicate the fact that this book takes a different interpretation of the subject matter than the standard history textbook. Rather than the received wisdom of America being the land of opportunity, he examines the history of women, racial minorities (especially Native Americans and slaves), and the working class in America, revealing the inequities that have been part and parcel of our nation since its inception. For me, though, I'm not sure if it's just because I'd already had a lot of exposure to these ideas in other reading as well as in some of my college coursework, but Zinn's book just didn't give me much new information. Things like the extermination of the Native American nations, the systematic oppression of women and blacks, and the explosive clashes between labor and capital in the early 20th century were already well-known to me. As a comprehensive overview, though, I can't think of any other books that cover it all in a single volume, so if you have an interest in an alternative perspective of American history, you could do a lot worse than A People's History. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman. To give you an idea of how much this book worked for me, I'll say this: within the first ten pages, I almost cried twice. As it happened, at exactly that point I was working on pulling together my "All Good Things" and "It Forgets You" photo series for a portfolio review, and those bodies of work deal specifically with the passage of time, ephemerality, home, nostalgia, childhood, parenthood, and family. So The Ocean at the End of the Lane pretty much hit me right where I live.

Gaiman is, of course, a wildly popular figure in contemporary fantasy, albeit a somewhat polarizing one. I have no idea whether a person who normally dislikes his work would like this one any better, but to me it was a near perfect distillation of what works about his writing. Ocean is told as a memory that comes over the narrator as he revisits his childhood home, a memory that he's long forgotten about a dark, mystical episode in his childhood, and the fairy-like family who lived on the farm next door. It's a short little book, one that took me only a few hours to read, but which just crushed me with how well it expressed so many feelings that I'm examining in my own life right now. If there's anything about my photography or my writing that resonates with you, you may very well find the same thing in this book, only better. For me, it was easily the most moving thing I read all year. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

The Magicians series, by Lev Grossman. So, imagine that you want to write a Harry Potter novel but where the point-of-view character is a wiener and a bit of a douchebag and self-absorbed and casually misogynist in the way nerds so often are—you know, like a real teenaged boy. And then use that as the way into a contemporary Narnia story, but where all of the characters are drawn with the same realism. That's basically what you have with Lev Grossman's Magicians series. It's always an interesting experience reading a story where I dislike the protagonist, and it usually doesn't work well for me. Where it does, either I have to find some other character or characters to root for, or I have to be able to find some core of decency in the main character. What's intriguing to me is the way in which both of those things are present in this series, and yet neither is. As I mentioned, the main character is selfish and whiny and tends to play the victim, vacillating between wanting to be a better person and wallowing in ennui and self-pity. But the book never really lets him off the hook, and though pretty much none of the characters are sympathetic ones, they all have their moments, particularly when calling out the protagonist for his bullshit. I started reading this right in the midst of taking in a lot of new information about patriarchy and misogyny and feminism, so in a lot of ways I ended up questioning whether the world really needed another story about the redemption of a shitty male character—which is ultimately what this ends up being, plotwise—but even so I did really like this series, and if nothing else, it was a fresh take on an old formula. (The Magicians: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads. The Magician King: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads. The Magician's Land: Amazon, B&N, Goodreads.)

*

The Mirror Empire, by Kameron Hurley. The person who recommended me this book describes it like this: "This is the weirdest thing I've read in ages. You should try it. You'll see." I don't think I can do better than that. But, look, if you want to read probably the most innovative epic fantasy I can think of, this would be the one. In the broad outlines, the story isn't so new—invaders from a parallel world threaten to destroy civilization as its known to the protagonists—but the broad outlines are never where innovation happens in genre fiction. What's immediately unusual about this book is the way it sets up a world in which the gender binary is not just rejected, but is not even acknowledged. What makes it both skillful and somewhat opaque is that in the worldbuilding, the author refuses to hold your hand; nothing is explained unless the character would actually need it explained, there are no info dumps and precious little exposition. But what makes it gripping is how utterly brutal the author is to her characters. Look, just go read it. It's really weird. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

*

Tome of the Undergates, by Sam Sykes. I really wanted to like this book, which I bought because its author is highly entertaining on Twitter. It ended up not really being for me, though. The story is a sort of D&D-reminiscent quest where a group of adventurers (this is the word that's used in the book) are hired to retrieve the tome mentioned in the title. And, granting that it's only the first book in a trilogy, the plot still felt meandering and unresolved, and most of the character beats in between the plot and action points felt repetitive and uninteresting to me. I gave it my best shot, but ultimately quit halfway through the second book. A fair number of Goodreads reviewers had almost exactly the opposite impression of me, particularly appreciating both the plot and characterization, so your mileage may vary. (Amazon, B&N, Goodreads)

What is the appropriate role of a father? To what extent does the answer depend on the gender of the child? What is the appropriate balance between actively instructing children and passively allowing them to come to their own conclusions?

What is my responsibility to continue seeking information from sources who make me unhappy, if their criticisms of me and people like me are correct? What is the appropriate balance between cultivating one’s own happiness and well-being and trying to be a better person, in cases where these two conflict?

What is my responsibility to speak up for less privileged people, and what is my responsibility to remain silent in order to allow less privileged people to empower themselves? How much does the answer depend on the degree of privilege I benefit from?

To what extent is it acceptable to express disagreement with unprivileged people in a discussion about that privilege? How much does the answer depend on the relative privilege between the people who disagree? How much does the answer depend on the nature of the disagreement?

In cases of double standards, to what extent is the problem due to the inequality of the application of the standard, and to what extent is the problem the standard itself? Put another way, should the priority be to give “privilege” to everyone, or should it be to remove it from everyone? Is the answer the same for every type of double standard or privilege?

With respect to pornography and sex work, how can one reconcile the goal of ending the objectification of women with the goal of allowing women the freedom to choose to participate in pornography and sex work without a social stigma (e.g. "slut shaming")? If these two goals are incompatible, which is the better goal to achieve? Can pornography be consumed in such a way that does not objectify its participants? If not, to what extent are the participants culpable for perpetuating the objectification of themselves and others?

To what extent is it possible to separate a work of art from the artist who produced it? To what extent is it acceptable to try to do so? If the artist's racism, sexism, or other prejudices are not present in the work itself, how does this affect the question? If racism, sexism, or other prejudices are present in the work, how should this affect how we understand or value the work as a whole? To what extent do the time period and contemporary cultural context of the artist affect this calculus?

To what extent is it acceptable to appreciate or enjoy the privilege I benefit from? To what extent does maintaining my lifestyle harm or oppress other people? If I am aware that change is required and have the ability to affect that change, to what extent am I complicit in oppression if I do not actively work toward that change? How much is the answer affected by the difficulty of the change?

Assuming that it is impossible to perfectly rid myself of bias and to always speak and behave perfectly appropriately, at what point am I doing “good enough”? At what point is it reasonable to consider myself a good person? How does the answer change if it is not impossible, but merely very difficult?

-----

I have spent a lot of time pondering both these generalized questions and the more specific scenarios that led to them, but I haven't been able to come to any conclusions. I can't figure out the general principles, I can't figure out the specific applications, and I can't figure out if it even makes sense to try to reduce the specifics to general principles. It's possible that there are no definitive answers.

I recognize that some of these questions may be problematic. Some or all of them may be fundamentally based on biased assumptions or on ignorance. Some or all of them may be offensive, or ridiculous, or self-pitying. If that's the case, I'd like to know about it.

If you do have thoughts or opinions on any of these questions, please leave a comment. I have just one request: you don't have to be nice to me, but please do be nice to each other.

"A photograph should be more interesting than the subject and transcend its obviousness."

That's a quotation from photographer Jeffrey Ladd which has been making the rounds in photoland, due in part to the fact that Jörg Colberg highlighted it in a blog post a few weeks ago. It's also something that a reviewer repeated to me (somewhat exasperatedly) during my session with him at the Medium Festival of Photography this past weekend.

I met with twelve people during the portfolio reviews, ranging from museum curators to creative agents to bloggers to gallery owners. I also got the chance to show my photographs to a few dozen others via the open portfolio walk and the Open Show presentations (the latter of which my friend Jonas was kind enough to invite me to take part in). The responses I got ranged from tepid to breathless. Some people found my pictures cute; others found them poignant. One reviewer complimented me on the quietness of the images; another said I needed to give him a reason to care. Several told me that I needed to make the work more universal, while others talked about how relatable the emotions and experiences were that I was trying to convey. One told me that I should study more; another said that I don't need to keep aspiring to the level of the photographers I admire, because I'm already there.

I admit, that last one was (and is) a bit difficult for me to swallow. I don't think of myself as a "real" artist, nor do I think of my work as anything special. Getting back to the quotation I led with, it's always been difficult for me to judge whether or not the pictures I make (or the things I write, or anything I do or think) are obvious, because everything I do is obvious to me. In general, I'm always surprised when anyone wants to talk to me or cares what I say or do. I almost never feel like I belong, or that I or the things I do will be important to anyone besides me.

(I can feel my in-laws rushing to say something nice about me here. I appreciate the sentiment, but I just want to make it clear that I'm not fishing for compliments. How I feel about myself and my work is almost entirely a product of my own insecurities, and is not at all rational. As proof: I crave validation, but receiving it makes me profoundly uncomfortable.)

During the second half of the festival I got to see some amazing lectures from a diverse group of photographers, all of them working in profoundly different ways toward different goals and exploring different themes and subjects. Chris Engman and Soo Kim are doing utterly brilliant work exploring the very nature of photography. Matt Black, Virginia Beahan, and Jess T. Dugan are engaging with important social and political issues in deeply humanist ways. And on the one hand I was genuinely excited to see their work, both as an audience member and in taking away new perspectives as an aspiring artist. But, me being me, it's hard not to look at what they do and be overwhelmed; by comparison, my own photographs and the themes I'm dealing with feel small and obvious and trifling. These are people who are dealing with complex questions about art and the medium of photography, or exploring critical real-world issues like gender, sexuality, the representation of marginalized communities, environmental sustainability, water use, poverty, economic inequality, and international migration. The only things I'm looking at are my relatively comfortable life and the inside of my own mind.

And yet.

Not everyone who saw my photographs connected with what they saw, but some did, and did so very strongly. I tend to concentrate more on my failures than my successes, and so the fact that some people find my pictures boring or perhaps even self-indulgent makes me question what I'm doing. But the truth is that I'm aiming at a very specific set of emotions and experiences with my photographs, and even if those emotions and experiences might be recognizable, they're not ones that are going to matter to everybody. And that's OK, because I'm not really talking to those people. Moreover, I don't have to be talking to them. I always recognize the legitimacy of specificity in other people's work; I should be willing to do the same with mine.

When people ask me about my motivations in creating my work—as many people did over the course of the four-day festival—I always say that the artists who have most moved me are the ones in whose work I have seen something of myself. Something that I can relate to, that lets me know that someone else is going through the same things I'm going through, and thinking about the same things that I'm thinking about. That those artists, through their work, make me feel a connection to something bigger than myself, and help me feel a little less alone, a little less afraid. I say that this is what I want to do with my own photographs and writing. I think it's time to really live up to that statement, to own it. And that means accepting that I have a right to my own voice, and to believe in what I'm saying.

I still have a lot to learn—I always will—and it will always be important to me to maintain a sense of humility. I don't think I will ever stop being nervous or self-conscious about my work. But I'm coming around to the idea that this stuff of mine has its place in the world, and I'm cautiously optimistic about the future.

Today is your birthday. I know that you are aware of this, because for the past two months you've been saying "I want that for my birthday" whenever you see a commercial or a toy or an article of clothing that you like. I have a suspicion that you won't remember everything you've asked for—or maybe it's just a hope.

Since your last birthday you started pre-school. You've impressed everyone at your school with your personality and your intellect; the director likes to say that you're "tiny and mighty." I think that's apt. You're smaller than just about everyone you meet, but you have spunk, and you make your opinions known. (Sometimes, maybe, Mommy and I might wish that you could be a little less, shall we say, forceful in your opinions, but we also love that you have so much to say.) You hold your own, even amongst kids who are bigger and older.

But you're also still our sweet girl, and nowhere does that show more than in how you are with your baby sister. Every night before you go to bed, you insist on getting to hold her, and all day you pepper her with kisses. You try to comfort her when she's fussy, sing to her in the car, and just generally do your best to take care of her. It makes me so proud.

We have our challenges, too, which is only to be expected for a girl about to be three. You're growing into yourself, bouncing off the boundaries we put in place for you. You're not always thrilled with me and Mommy. But every day I'm thankful to have such a funny, smart, affectionate, wonderful girl in my life. I love you, sweetie.

Where to begin? It's hard now, three weeks and some later, to separate out the pieces of the story, and all the more so since I start work again tomorrow, and my mind is caught up with looking ahead. But this is not how the story starts; let me begin again.

It was dark when we left the house. The kids had spent the night at their grandparents' hotel room, the dog was at the kennel, our bags had been packed the night before. Passing through the empty office parks on our way to the hospital, we passed a police car with its lights spinning, parked beside a tree that had fallen into the street. Over and over as we drove, Juliette and I marveled that we would have another baby in mere hours, and also that this would be the last time we'd make this particular trip.

There was a certain sense of relief that we shared. We'd made it through Jason's birthday—just three days before—without Juliette going into labor. And, of course, she was looking forward to being able to breathe again. But there was a bit of apprehension, too. Not because of the impending sleepless nights; we'd been through that before and we knew we could handle it.

The first time we had made that drive, Juliette was curled into a ball in the passenger seat and I was just trying to hold it together, and despite all the classes and reading, we were both unprepared for how things went. The second time was more like this one, calmer and a little surreal, but later I would be holding her hand while she gasped and moaned from the pain of an incompletely anesthetized surgery. This time we felt more experienced, but that experience had taught us that things would probably be different in unexpected ways.

Things started in a familiar way. We filled out paperwork, we waited. Eventually Juliette went into the OR to be prepped, and I stood outside in the hall, alone, pacing nervously and cracking my knuckles and taking pictures of nothing.

But then things were different. Juliette had a smile on her face as the doctors started operating. The anesthesia worked this time, so instead of hearing Juliette's pain, I heard the pings and whirs of the machinery, and the doctors' voices as they discussed recipes for salmon.

And then, all of a sudden, there she was.

And just as I had both times before, I marveled at how loud she was. She looks like Eva, I thought to myself as I brought her to meet her mother for the first time on the outside. "Hi, Mary," I said. "Hi, baby girl. Happy birthday."

There are lots of little details that spring to mind from the next few hours and days. The surprise in the doctor's voice when she saw that Mary's umbilical cord had a knot in it. The little spurt of blood when I cut the cord, that shot out and hit one of the nurses in the eye. The surprise and joy at finally having a big baby—and the way I pumped my fists in celebration at the first visit to the pediatrician's office, when she'd regained her birth weight in just six days.

And now we're a family, all over again and newly and differently. We're still learning what that means and how we live together. It's strange and new and more than a little bit exhausting. And it's wonderful.

By this time tomorrow, my life will be different. In itself, that's nothing out of the ordinary—every day brings something new, every day I am different from the day before. But tomorrow is a big one, because tomorrow is the day that my new daughter will be born.

One of my co-workers said to me last week that I must be an old pro at this by now. And it's true that I am comfortable as a parent now. I know that I can handle the sleepless nights, the diaper disasters. I even know that I can take care of my two older kids and a baby at the same time. But as much as I do know what it's like to have children, all I can really say is that I know what it's like to have my children, to have the two that I know already.

Leading up to Eva's birth, I remember feeling a certain sadness. I knew that I would love her and that I would some day reach a point where I couldn't imagine life without her. And both of those things were true. But I still felt a sense of grief at the loss of the family that we had right then. When it was just me and Juliette and Jason, it was wonderful, and when Eva came into our lives it was wonderful, too, but in a different way, and knowing that that first experience would be ending was bittersweet.

And so it is tonight. I know that it will be wonderful to have another daughter. I know that I will love her, and laugh with her, and that I will have a bond with her that is similar to the ones I have with her siblings, but one that will be unique to her and me. I'm looking forward to that. But I can't get away from this small sadness that what I have now, which I also love, will be ending.

Little girl, I don't know you yet. And you don't know me, not really. Maybe some day you will read this and wonder about my feelings for you, and if that happens then I'm sorry. But I will tell you this: as I'm writing this we are strangers, but by the time you're able to read this, I will love you so much that it makes my chest hurt, and I will have held you and kissed you and taken care of you so well that you will not wonder long. You will know that I will always love you. And I hope that some day, when you are waiting for your child to be born, that knowing how I felt now will help you know that everything will be OK, and that if you feel something like this, that you are not alone.

I can't wait to meet you.

Dear Jason,

In just a few days you're going to have a new baby sister, but today is your day. I know you're still disappointed that you're not going to have a brother, but I have been so impressed with how helpful you have been to your mom and Eva and me. You are a really good big brother—having a little sister is frustrating sometimes, but you are always looking out for Eva and trying to do things for her, and I am so proud whenever I see that.

This past year has been a big one for you. You started school and had a great kindergarten year. You made lots of new friends, but still kept in touch with some of your old pre-school buddies. You have made a lot of progress in learning to read and write, and I've been so proud of how hard you've worked at it, even though you don't always want to. You work hard at practicing lots of things: swimming, tying your shoes, karate. You even do a great job of keeping your room clean.

We went to Legoland this weekend for your birthday, and what I really love about how grown up you've gotten is how much fun we have together now. We had a blast going on the waterslides together, and going on rides, and looking for the little people in Miniland. I love that you get so excited about things like explaining the Star Wars scenes to your uncle, or explaining Pokemon to your grandfather. I hope that you never lose that enthusiasm.

Today is your birthday, and I hope it's a great one. Happy birthday, pal. I love you.

Little fingers, how did you wind up there? Were you reaching for something as your eyelids drooped? It almost looks like you are pushing your pillow away, holding it back from your face. Of course, by the time I come back, after putting my camera away, you'll have moved. I wonder if you'll ever sleep still. But then, I suppose I don't, either.

I hope all my US friends are having a safe and happy holiday weekend. (For those of you outside the US, I hope your non-holiday weekend is also safe and happy.)

Niagara Falls—one of the most photographed locations in the world. I literally had to push through a crowd of camera-wielding tourists in order to take this picture, but whatever. Originality is overrated anyway.