Tuesday, April 21, 2026

Legible Type

Readability versus legibility: in reading, the two overlap but there is a difference. Legibility means all the letters and punctuation are readily recognized. Readability means the eye moves along quickly, with understanding of the text. Every book should be, to some degree, readable.

And if it is, it will also be somewhat legible. However, when readability is the priority, the eye quickly scans over the letter forms, the punctuation marks, sensing them more than consciously recognizing them. That is great for a good reader.

For a beginner, legible typefaces such as Century Schoolbook are preferable. Reading is slower but comprehension, ideally, is improved. When I am writing a draft, I have that same need for legibility. It helps me see mistakes, lets me make sure the punctuation is proper. With some typefaces, it is, for example, difficult to determine which direction quotation marks might slant, or to make out the difference between a comma and a period. That is not a good thing at the drafting stage, nor in early rounds of editing.

I sometimes write with that aforementioned Century Schoolbook. Other times, I prefer to work with a monospaced font at that stage; Linux Libertine Mono is the go-to at the moment, but others work. I do prefer a mono typeface that looks more like the serif fonts one would find in a book. Again, big, easily-read punctuation is particularly desirable.

Incidentally, though Century Schoolbook is great for writing or for children’s books, I would not be inclined to set an adult book in it. If one desires its look, there are ‘tighter’ takes on the Century typeface — more readable ones — or other type designs in the Scotch Roman style that should be preferable.

Night Rains Release

Today, Arachis Press releases my latest poetry collection, Night Rains. Here's a direct link to the print edition at the retail shop: 

https://www.lulu.com/shop/stephen-brooke/night-rains/paperback/product-95wp5rj.html

Or visit Arachis Press (arachispress.com) for both the print and the free ebook editions.

Tuesday, April 7, 2026

Fabrication, a poem

Fabrication

I imitate the intimate,
taught each thought I share;
love becomes another glove,
worn until worn through.

I misstate my each mistake;
would you wound me now?
Come again to the same sum,
naught will not make true.

I fabricate, I recreate,
the song I once heard wrong;
my voice become another noise,
ash to ashes new.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

playing around with words again 

Monday, April 6, 2026

A Theological Limerick

The devil is God’s evil twin,
both equal so neither can win!
They argue each day,
as they strive to sway
mankind to do good or to sin!

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Thursday, March 26, 2026

Impostor Syndrome

Impostor Syndrome

I am a proud impostor,
an actor on a stage;
today I play the author,
pretense on every page.
And if I play it well,
then I become this role,
another character
I have created whole.
I lose who I once was,
the lines begin to blur;
then who can tell who’s who?
Not even I am sure.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

Wednesday, March 18, 2026

Wednesdays, a poem

Wednesdays

The streets slept on those Wednesday afternoons,
the eyes of every shop closed, as some napped
and some prepared for church. Some would nap there
as well. In the unhurried way of then,

if some should choose to fish, instead, that was
okay. Come Thursday morning, salesmen, grocers,
and barbers would come back and doors would open.
and small-town life did very much go on.

The world little noticed as things changed,
as Wednesdays faded into all the rest
of life, and every day became the same.
No one now sleeps away the afternoons.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

a bit of poetic nostalgia

Tuesday, March 17, 2026

Unbidden, a poem

 Unbidden

Unbidden come these dreams,
wending roads of night;
let them hang themselves
by waning lantern light
at each crossroad gallows,
as the moon unbars
all the darkened gates
of the tombstone stars.

Calling to the tempest,
every word a pact
with tomorrow’s demons,
sunrise will diffract
echo into echo,
each into its lies,
facets of the wind
promised to the skies.

Sing my midnight riddles
until the answers change;
pluck the corpse-white blossoms,
seeking to arrange
bouquets for loves forgotten,
in graves I’ve long hidden,
for the roads of night,
for these dreams unbidden.

Stephen Brooke ©2026