Some hobbies sneak up on you. Bookbinding hit me like that — one minute I was watching a tutorial, the next I was knee-deep in book cloth, adhesives, and cardboard grain direction, wondering how I’d lived this long without doing it.
What started as a curiosity has quickly become the thing I look forward to at the end of the day, a hands-on counterpart to the very digital world of writing.
There’s something satisfying about the precision of it: cutting boards to size, choosing endpapers, ironing cloth smooth, pressing everything into a clean, solid block. Writing is abstract; bookbinding is tangible.
You can feel the progress. You can see it. The moment a loose stack of pages becomes an actual book never gets old.
My first experiments were with my own copies — well-loved paperbacks that deserved sturdier, more beautiful homes. Rebinding them opened a door I didn’t expect: not only could I create editions I wanted on my own shelves, but I could start tailoring them to fit my personal taste.
Minimalist covers, vinyl designs, clean spines, custom endpapers. The kind of books I always wish existed.
Naturally, the next thought followed: once I’ve rebound my entire collection, why stop there? I’m already planning to move into editions by other indie authors — books that deserve the same level of care but don’t always get special treatment from traditional printing. There’s something gratifying about giving a story a physical form that feels as intentional as the writing inside.
Bookbinding has become a quiet obsession, equal parts craft and problem-solving, and it’s quickly turning into a full-blown project list. Every time I finish one, I’m already thinking about the next.
And honestly? I can’t wait to see my shelves filled with handmade editions — mine, and those of the authors I admire.