Prim exists wherever
you imagine her.

Prim has no photograph because she does not need one. She lives in your imagination, and your imagination will do a far better job with her than any camera ever could. Every reader hears her voice differently. Every reader pictures her at their table. That is not an accident. That is exactly how she was meant to arrive.

She has been at the table long enough to know what a rack looks like when someone is in trouble, long enough to recognize the Charleston bluff, long enough to understand that the most interesting player in the room is rarely the loudest one.

She started writing The Order of the Tile because she was tired of reading things about this game that treated it as less than it is. A hobby. A pastime. Something charming and quaint and not entirely serious.

Prim finds this insulting. The game deserves better. The players deserve better. And so every Thursday she sits down and writes the letter she wishes someone had handed her at her first table.

She has opinions about jokers, about the Charleston, about what it means to play defensively without losing your hand entirely. She has opinions about the community, about the brands worth supporting, about the tournaments worth attending.

She shares all of them. She does not soften them to make you comfortable. She assumes you are intelligent enough to disagree with her, and she respects you enough to give you something worth disagreeing with.

That is the letter. I am Prim. Welcome to the table.