Eon Croft is a pen name. The writer is a person. Here is a little of both.
I write under the name Eon Croft, from a small farm tucked into the rolling hills of the country I spent half my life trying to get to. We made it here in 2020 — later than we'd hoped, on time exactly — and most of what I write now is some version of look, look what we found.
Before the farm, there were a lot of other lives. There was a backpack and a Eurail pass and a girlfriend and a summer of hostels in the late nineties — the kind of trip where you wake up in a different city's light every few days and your whole sense of what's possible quietly resets. There were Lilith Fair afternoons and Lollapalooza dust and the conviction, common to my generation of women, that the world owed us a softer ending than the one it kept advertising.
There was a long marriage, which is also a kind of country you have to work to move to. We worked toward this one for almost twenty years.
Now: chickens, a garden that loses to the deer about a third of the time, a kettle on most mornings, and a row of crocuses I planted the first fall we owned the soil. They come up earlier every year, or I notice earlier — I'm not always sure which.
This site is where I keep the writing that doesn't fit anywhere else — essays, letters, the slower stuff. If you've found your way here, I'm glad.
— Eon