When I lived in Hollywood my address was followed by 1/2. Everyone always asked, what does that mean, you got half of an apartment? You know, like a John Malkovich kind of thing.

The houses located on Dennett Place in Carroll Gardens get full integer addresses, but half doors.

Are you just supposed to duck when you go through them?

Or are they secret portals that lead into another person’s subconscious? Thanks to Sarah for pointing out this small wonder.

More one-size-fits-all Brooklyn.

We interrupt the pounding of pavement to bring you this required summer reading list. The sharp minds at Coudal—swappers of meat, players of layers, and curators of the imagination—asked me and a bunch of other writers to “field-test” books, meaning read a book in a place that inspired it (or sometimes in the place you just happened to be when you picked it up).

Field-Tested Books, then, is a collection of essays written by all those writers about those books and those places. As I alluded to when I visited Charles Bukowski’s apartment back in April, I wrote about his book Women, a field-test that could only take place in Hollywood: Enjoy.

So after you read that, I do suggest you get cracking on the other 60-odd essays, which I think is some of the best writing I’ve seen this side of the internet. But it doesn’t have to be that way! This year, in addition to ordering the beautiful poster by John Solimine, you can order a printed-on-demand Field-Tested Books Book which is made from real pages. My only question is, next time, will someone field-test the Field-Tested Books Book?

Thanks so much to Jim, Steve and the rest of the Chicagoans who made this happen.

I sat down here today to write an intensely personal post about what it felt like to abandon my apartment after almost four years, which is, by nature, I think, an intensely personal thing to write about. When I moved into this apartment it represented a milestone for me because it was the first place I ever occupied by myself. But it was also the first place where I could confidently call myself a writer. Without running to the toilet and puking.

All of this—and yes, puking, too—is what I wanted to tell you about today. Until I read this article, an intensely personal (and beautifully written) piece about the intensely personal (and often dangerous) world of blogging. Because although I moved out of this apartment this week as a finally-budding writer who had proved herself to be extremely proficient at living on her own for the first time, I suddenly realized I will probably remember my time most here as the period during which I became a blogger.

And it’s funny, the memories I have of this apartment. The most vivid one is what you might call a recurring memory since it happened every single day: Sitting at my desk gnawing chunks out of my hangnails trying to figure out what I could possibly write about to fill my three-plus-posts-a-day quota.

Almost every square-foot of that tiny space has a blogging memory tagged to it; I can read it like a Google Map. I can see myself standing at the kitchen sink the day I plotted a retort to an insanely mean email while steel-wooling a baking sheet to a mirror-like shine. Staring at the bumps in the wall of my bedroom in the middle of the night, fretting over a horrifying assumption I’d typed with glee earlier that day. Freaking out as I soaped up my hair in the shower, convinced that last post I moved to ‘publish’ went too far. (It did.)

During those six short steps from my bed to the computer every morning I would consider the day’s two, and only two, possible scenarios: That oxygen-to-the-brain rush when the right people noticed how freaking awesome I wrote, or the chest-crushing low of getting a post dead stupid wrong. That daily twinge, that familiar nausea, will forever haunt the corners of those four rooms for me.

Now I can appreciate the irony. It was a place where, for once, I lived completely by myself. But at the same time, I willingly tossed myself out into the open, every single day, for everyone to see.

Even though I’m stuck inside playing a neverending game of Tetris with my possessions, it just got triumphantly sunny and warm after a few too many days of early-onset May Gray. And since I’m packing up for a few months away, I kind of feel like I’m going to camp. And that means one thing: Summer is here!

Begin in Hollywood. Ditch your car and spend a year-and-a-half walking pretty much everywhere. Change up your career, start a new blog, and have a sudden urge to write a book. Keep walking. Hear that Chronicle Books is starting up a new series of walking tour books. The new City Walks guides will focus on walks with architectural destinations, starting with New York. Walk around Los Angeles and think about walking around New York. Write a proposal, send it off, cross fingers. While walking (how ironic), receive a call. It’s a lovely editor offering the gig! Prevent jaw from hitting concrete. Run, don’t walk, all the way home. Turn to friends who will have great advice about their favorite architectural walks in New York. Begin research, buy new sneakers, pack. Sublet a place in the city, preferably in Brooklyn (any leads appreciated). Arrive at the end of May. Stay through mid-July. Spend the summer walking the streets of New York City. Hope to see some of you there.