Emma Wilkins – Page 2 – Journalist and freelance writer

Oh Reader

Oh the pages you’ll go!

What you read and where you go can sometimes be the same thing.

I was scrolling through my camera roll, looking for some summer snaps to send to my grandparents, when I noticed an unexpected theme. Interspersed among photographs of action, lit by sun, were just as many flat, uncolored images—ink on paper, black on white: photographs of text.

It didn’t come as a surprise; I’ve had this habit for some time. I’ll read a line or paragraph I don’t want to forget—a passage that has moved me or intrigued me; a phrase that sounds especially beautiful or rings especially true—and make a copy I can keep. They’re fragments I might want to ponder further, to reference in my writing, to share with a book-loving friend.
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Hello May

Why fewer frills made our wedding day more fun

My husband and I married young and on a budget. His late grandfather was known for saying people shouldn’t make any major life decisions before they turned 20; my husband was 19.

My engagement ring cost cents not dollars—it was a gummy ring I promptly ate. Our wedding bands were $50 each, and I bought a dress on sale for about $100. It wasn’t technically a wedding dress but it looked like one to me. We didn’t want to choose which friends and family to invite so, despite our budget, we made it open-invite.
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Third Space

The story nature tells

I’ve always found it strange—and strangely wonderful—that one person can adore a certain type of food or music, leisure or work, that another will detest; that one person can find an artwork profoundly moving, while another doesn’t even consider it “art”.

At the same time, most people seem to agree that sunsets and stars, waterfalls and mountains, forests and flowers are beautiful; or at the very least, “not yuck”.
The Spectator

Can’t get no satisfaction? Try, for a happier new year

The older I get, the less inclined I am to make New Year’s resolutions. Perhaps I’ve developed an unconscious superstition that turning a personal goal into a New Year’s resolution means I’m less likely to achieve it. After all, we joke about breaking them even as we’re making them.

The classic health goals, for example, are usually either too vague—to eat healthier and exercise more—or too prescriptive—to cut out carbs and exercise for two hours a day.
e-book

All my friends are characters

One day, after years interviewing strangers for work, I started wondering what it would be like to interview my friends. My husband, who is responsible for stopping me when I get a crazy idea, encouraged me to pursue it.

I decided to limit myself to one-hour interviews, and aim for twelve participants. I told them I’d change their names, but warned that because of their connection to me, some readers would still identify them.
Peppermint Magazine

Stitch by loving stitch

There’s a superstition among knitters, called the “sweater curse”, that giving a hand-knitted jumper to a sweetheart will lead to a breakup. But my grandmother and mother could argue that the opposite is true: knitting can help stitch people together.

The first present my grandmother gave my grandfather, which he received in the post for his seventeenth birthday, was two knitted vests and a knitted cardigan. “The first thing I thought was: how long does it take to make three? Three!” Grandad recalls. He’s almost as astonished now as he was then.
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Ozy

Should you fly? A dilemma of viral proportions

My phone is set to silent when the message arrives. Later, when checking the time, I see it previewed on the screen. I forget all about the time.

It begins with a line of text, but what I notice first is the emojis: three lines of identical skulls. The text (“Have you heard of the black death. This is what it dose.”) would be threatening if it weren’t for the grammar and the spelling—reminders that its author, an earnest boy with a vast imagination, is only eight.
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The Weekend Australian

This (plum) life

The house next door goes on the market within weeks and sells within days. The plum tree in the front yard ripens.

I think of Byron—white hair, blue eyes, a gardener’s skin, a gardener’s hands—who loved to share and hated waste; who offered us its fruit day after day.
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Quilette

Sheep and mirrors: On being social

I’m pregnant with our third child when I read Marlen Haushofer’s 1963 novel The Wall. It’s a terrifying thought experiment where the main character is confronted with the possibility she’s the last human being alive.

As she documents her fight for survival, I wonder if I’d have the will to carry on if everyone I knew was dead and I had no hope of ever seeing or loving another human again. I suspect every remaining joy in the world would suddenly lose its lustre. But why?