Frustratingly, it turns out the best way to begin is to simply do it. Ignore the early-onset doubt of looking at a blank page, or spiral into self-aggrandizing dreams thinking of all the honours and accolades you’ll accumulate at some unrealized time in the future. You might get there, or you might not, but the best way to find out is to begin. Writing can be irritating in that way.

Much like learning an instrument, becoming a better runner or the multitude of hobbies where you can try to optimize yourself into a stasis, it is better to begin and learn along the way. The same could be said for deck building. The same should be said for playing Magic the Gathering.

How you begin often depends on how you found your way into the game, which formats appeal to you and, often, what is happening in your local scene. I’ve had a bit of a habit of dipping in and out of Magic, picking up a deck or a handful of booster packs and departing again before the cards rotate out, so cobbled together kitchen table was my introduction. Those decks were probably worth a crisp ten dollar Canadian — probably an over estimation on my part — and they lived in an old pencil case along with an old twenty-sided die gifted to me from a neighbour. They would all be pitched into my family’s frequent yard sales before a move sooner or later, but I kept coming back. Unlike other players who picked up their first cards in the early aughts, I don’t have the same stories of modern-day nest eggs parcelled out for video games, zeitgeist TCGs or other schoolyard barters. My cards were expendable. They were bent, clipped, hangdog piles; every card carried signs of wear.

But they are what kept Magic in my memory. The Nantuko Husk from my first deck in 2005, or the Drana’s Emissary that I saw as the lynchpin of my deck when I came back a decade later. The high-value cards, the dual lands, power nine, judges promos and dwindling supply of black lotuses are incredible. They are pieces of the game’s history contained in a card, relic and game piece entwined — but so is the chaff. I doubt I will ever hold any card that would impress a collector or historian of the game, but I don’t need to. These weren’t the cards that initially sparked my passion and love for the game; and there are no doubt better people to document their importance. I’m interested in the ones that might be the missing piece for your newest brew, a limited bomb or a card that had its time but now sits in a trade binder or— more likely — a bundle box.

Signs of Wear will be a newsletter/blog/potpourri of writing about Magic the Gathering, the cards, artists, moments and people who make it. A fervent accumulation of words whittled down into something resembling an ethos of what I think writing about this game and its over thirty-year history can be. The fact is there is more writing on Magic, from tour coverage, deck techs, preview lists, forums and articles from the mothership only kept alive thanks to the preservation efforts of players with the clear sense there’s no guarantee what we prize on the internet is going to last forever, than I could ever hope to read. But as much as I value the past, we have to make the most of the present moment. Great writing and criticism can’t be a nostalgic remembrance from earlier eras in the game’s history.

And, luckily, it’s not if you’re paying attention. Any given week is a good week for writing or thinking about the game. Instead of a Duelist article — which I admittedly miss — there’s a scroll-heavy thread or article speaking to Magic the Gathering as it is in our current moment. It might be destroyed by one of the umpteen pieces of efficient removal, but I can cast a Tarmogoyf as easily today as when it was a piece worth drafting for value. And what Signs of Wear hopes to be is a bulletin, partially an investigation into cards far from a collectors mind and partially one person’s thoughts about an ever-evolving scene. Regardless of what it may become, I can promise it will always be honest, open and honoring the values that I think the best parts of this community espouse.

My goal is three articles a month, with three weeks on and one week off. You might find the occasional short post, errant thought or recommendation during the off weeks, but my aim is longevity. I’ve been a bystander to countless demanding publishing schedules that grind writers down before they shutter the spot completely. I’m only one guy and I’ll leave the more robust schedules to the talented teams running those bigger ventures — several where I’m a proud subscriber— and I’ll keep my little press churning in the corner. The first real installment will come next Tuesday morning and arrive, ideally, at the same time until the last week of April and we’ll keep that going from here on out. You have a piece all about mono-black angels — the furthest things from topical — to look forward to, and if you feel like adding another subscription to your inbox, the opportunity is always there.

As brutal as it is to begin, I find it more torturous to end. We give poor endings a pass, the author tired their best and nearly landed with a perfect dismount and aplomb. Luckily for me, this is just the start, and we’ll see where it goes.

Tanner Morton

Next Week: A Fallen Angel’s Thesis