When I ejected myself from staff jobs and landed in freelance territory in 2001, I admitted to no fear. Rather, I made of myself a myth. I nursed a vague feeling that my mission as a writer entailed finding the scaly, spiky malware driving fossil-fuel addition, roping it out with eloquence, and hurling it with gigaton paragraphs into the beyond.
Honest. And, honestly, thanks in no small part to reliable editors, some of my journalism from those days holds up strongly. The stories I still link to with pride get at my current core question: how can people who don't share language or privilege design cues to advance common health and resilience into public space?
One real estate feature for New York magazine gets at this. Enjoy it here.