Weem Adrift Publishing began its long, slurking journey to redemption when bookbinder Laure Hittle discovered the Budge-Nuzzard in the far reaches of the Internet and fell in love. Soon she had delved into the source code to pull forth fonts, background images, anything she could use to recreate this horrific wonder on the physical plane, and when she emerged wild-eyed from her bookbinding laboratory, she held aloft A Book: A hand-bound paperback of her newfound favorite thing in the world. She reread it, read it aloud, gibbered to those unfortunate enough to stand too close. In this process she found typos, then corrected the text and gave the old copy away. A second edition was born. Another year passed, and a third edition was born. Now the written and oral traditions, blog and podcast, were reconciled. Her work was done, or so she thought. She bound one copy for herself, and one for its author. A week later, she accidentally sold her copy. Then others, who had met the Budge and Nuzzard One and found favor with it, clamored for relief from their booklessness. She bound more copies. She has since lost track of the number of copies which now rove to and fro over the earth.

That same year, 2015, Laure discovered a poem cycle during Lent that carved itself into her bones. It appeared in the Rabbit Room’s literary journal, the Molehill, which she was reading, one piece at a time—fiction, essay, recipe, poetry—but when she read these small poems, she could read no further. Each word was a tear on her face. The next night, she attempted to read the next piece in the Molehill, but could not. She read those poems every night for a week, and again wept through them. When the first volume of the Molehill sold out, never to be reprinted, she wept again. That was two years after her first encounter with the poems which had broken and healed her innumerable times. Now there was a crack in the world.

It was, providentially, not until then that she found the perfect paper for these poems that she’d loved. And she had been searching for the whole of those two years.

She painstakingly recreated those poems. Scoured the web’s font foundries for just the right embellishments. Pored over the text to be sure it was perfect. Brought home huge sheets of 100% cotton rag paper and cut it down by hand. Designed a little hand-torn, walnut-stained J for the front cover. And then, as she had done with the Budge-Nuzzard, she bound two copies: One for her, and one for the poet whose poems she loved. When she put it into his hands and he had marveled over it, he asked: “Are you going to sell these?”

And thus, Weem Adrift Publishing was born.