Designer’s Notes: Between the Missing Chapters

The process of making a book is always a quiet act of wonder.

An author’s thoughts—intangible, ungraspable—slowly take on physical form. A world once held in the mind is stitched onto the page as language, and eventually becomes an object with texture and weight. Everyone involved encounters a few charged moments along the way. For me, the first that comes to mind is the moment I received the manuscript from the editor, Sara, and opened the table of contents.

Chapter 13 was missing. At first, I assumed it was a simple typo. I drafted a checklist for my reply to Sara—“Chapter 13 missing from contents”—and returned to the page. Only then did I notice that Chapter 17 was missing as well. Something felt off. This time, I went into the manuscript itself. Scrolling carefully from Chapter 1 onward, it became clear that this was not an editorial oversight. Sure enough, both Chapter 13 and Chapter 17 were absent from the text. Only after searching the manuscript for “13” and “17,” and discovering the appendix, did I fully understand the intention behind their absence. The realization was quietly exhilarating.

Inside the Floating City is a book that trusts implication over explanation. Life at sea does not operate by manuals alone; logic and instinct, the explainable and the unexplainable, exist side by side. This book embodies that balance not only through its narrative, but through its structure—by choosing to leave certain things unsaid.

In Chapter 12, Seventy Nations — One Keel, the author writes:

“To just sit there in the dark and feel the awe of where we were.”

I felt this line captured the book’s attitude with particular clarity. It is a choice to pause not in order to explain more, but to feel more precisely. Until the very end, the reason for the missing chapters may remain a mystery to readers, only to be revealed later. But that is precisely where the book places its trust—asking the reader to wait, to sense, and to connect meaning in their own time.

From the outset, the design direction Sara shared with me was clear: reduce ornament, reveal structure; choose clarity over embellishment. Inside the Floating City is both a personal account and a record of maritime rules, customs, and long-held ways of sensing the sea. Holding these two qualities with equal weight was the central challenge. The design began from a position of restraint. The deliberate omission of Chapters 13 and 17 makes visible what the book believes—that not everything needs to be explained, and that meaning can sometimes become sharper through absence.

White space in this book is not merely empty space. It is a pause—a place for the reader to stop and breathe before moving on. Just as the author sat in darkness on the bridge to sense where she was, the design repeatedly brings the reader back to an awareness of their own position within the book. As with the missing chapters, not everything on the page is filled. By choosing not to show everything, the design aims to communicate more.

Information needed to be quickly legible, while emotion was left for the reader to discover on their own. The pacing of the book was shaped deliberately: through variations in text density, spacing between paragraphs, and the rhythm of chapter transitions. When every element carries intention, space becomes more than absence—it becomes a vessel for sensation. Here, visual language is designed to function quietly rather than explain or emphasize. It does not interrupt the reader’s flow, but allows them to remain with the text over time. Repeating elements are present enough for structure to be felt, yet subtle enough to remain largely unnoticed. Many of the book’s details emerged from these silent choices.

This work reached its final form through collaboration with Sara. From the earliest stages, she shared her intentions and direction with clarity, allowing the focus to remain on the essence of the book rather than on unnecessary adjustments. Decisions were made within a shared context; they were decisive without being rushed. This collaborative environment ensured that the design never needed to assert itself. The form settled naturally, and the character of the book was able to emerge without distortion. Here, collaboration was not about pushing toward an outcome, but about holding a direction steadily until the end.

Inside the Floating City does not explain everything. Instead, it creates order and leaves space. Within that space, readers are invited to find meaning for themselves. Just as the author once sat in darkness to feel her location, the book offers readers the same kind of time. There are moments when withholding is more effective than revealing. I hope that, when they reach the end of this beautiful voyage, readers pause and think, “Why were Chapters 13 and 17 missing?” In that moment, the book completes itself once again.

Inside the Floating City — print edition

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Designer

Jihye Heo is the designer behind Inside the Floating City and Director at CHOONZA Books & Community

"A child of spring sowing seeds for what’s next while roaming the world for new horizons. Dedicated to reclaiming the values of dreams, possibilities, and solidarity. Not as hollow slogans, but as lived experiences: dreams that manifest, challenges that spark growth, and the art of becoming truly oneself."

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