It started with one book — a journal. Cloth, glue, board, paper, thread, then… a book. And then a second one. Next came the press, then a few more. A printer, some guillotines, a new space, another workbench. We craved better books than the ones we found around us. We slowly discovered that not only did we enjoy making them, but other people craved well-made books too.

We decided it was time to dust off an old, shared dream: to start a publishing company. We’d begin with our own works to get an understanding of the whole process, and then move into publishing works by other authors. We wanted to find out what it takes to make great books.

We’d handle all of the pre-production and production work for our first edition. Writing, editing, design, construction, manufacturing, packaging, shipping. With our first book, Bootstrapping Computing, we set out to learn as much as we could.

When we ran out of space, we started looking for a new one. We found a cabin in New Hampshire, heated by a lone wood stove in the middle, with an incredible view of the night sky. It had a big room facing the mountains well-suited for the bindery. We moved all of our stuff, and set up shop.

As we drove around our new town, we saw a sign: “Hand bookbinding, Classes”. We saw these signs on nearly every driveway in town. Eggs, maple syrup, pottery, timber, landscaping, mechanic, classes. We never regretted turning in.

We met Chris, a longtime bookbinder, mostly now retired. In addition to a lifetime’s knowledge, he was in posession of three cast iron book presses from the 1800s. One was his father’s. The other two were for sale. We brought one home, and spent a weekend restoring it for regular use. We did our best to clean it up and return it to its original paint job.

Almost every book that comes out of our bindery hits this press at some point in its construction, engaging in a shared history, and love of books, two centuries on.

As orders rolled in, we struggled to keep up. The manufacturer discontinued the paper we were using. A batch of glue got too cold during shipping, breaking its plasticity. Printing with pigment-based ink was beyond what most shops could do; we were on our own. We had to gather over each problem to figure something out so we could continue shipping our books to new customers all over the world.

The joys of handmaking books were more evident than the problems. We could hand-pick every aspect of a book’s design: the thread that sews the signatures, the endpages that paste the text block into the casewrap, the fabric, the endbands, the weight of the paper. We tinkered with cover designs that look great on cloth.

We prototyped alternate editions when inspiration struck, we made zines when extra paper arrived from the supplier, and we made one-off books, journals, and zines for friends.

Not every book comes out to spec. An ink blot here, a torn page there, a wrinkled flyleaf, a splotch on the cover. Not to mention, when the cabin sprang a leak, six good text blocks were lost all together. These parts go to the “graveyard” — a little bin in the corner of the bindery. They’re reused in prototypes of other books; a text block with a torn page will go into a test case wrap. Some are still good enough to share, and become additions to neighborhood lending libraries.

For our next edition, a paperback, it was time to start inviting outside help. We turned to Owen D. Pomery in London who illustrated the cover. We picked out the best-constructed paperback on our bookshelf, and tracked down the manufacturer. They worked with us to produce our paperbacks down to the finest specs. We found this setup to make a lot of sense: paperbacks made the best way they can be, with the precision of machines, and hardcovers made the best way they can be, with the care of doing everything by hand, one at a time.

We have a lot planned for our next year in business, but we’re closing out our first with an immense sense of gratitude: for our readers, our suppliers, our collaborators, all the authors we’ve spoken with about their works this year, and for the opportunity to do something we long thought impossible. Thank you for helping us make great books this year. We look forward to even more next year.

Until then, we’ll be making books and tending the fire.