A gift

A present that arrives fifty-two times.

One question a week for a year, their answers sent to whoever they choose, and a cloth hardcover of the whole thing at the end of it.

Not built yet. Leave your address at the foot of the page and we’ll write the week it opens.

You can run it, or hand it over.

Somebody has to be on the other end of the year — adding the family, seeing the stories arrive. It can be you, and for most gifts it should be.

Most gifts

You keep the reins

They answer the questions and nothing else. You add the family, you see what comes in, you sort the book at the end. They never see a settings page.

If they'd rather

Hand it over whole

Pass the year to them and step back. It becomes theirs to run, and you're a reader like everyone else.

The first one is the point. You keep the setting up and the sorting out, and they get the part that is actually worth doing.

And at the end of it, the book.

Fifty-two stories, the photographs kept with them, and what the family wrote back printed in the margins underneath. Bound in one of four cloths, with the family name stamped down the spine.

See what the book looks like →

The Wilson Family

Tell me when it’s ready.

The gift is the next thing we build. One email, the week it opens, and nothing else ever.