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(And Why It Matters)
When I’m not writing, I’m still in conversation with words.
Not in a strategic way. Not in a research way. More like keeping company with voices that remind me why I write at all.
Because the truth is, what I read when I’m not writing quietly shapes how — and whether — I return to the page.
I Read to Stay Oriented
When I’m actively drafting, I’m often inside my own head. My own rhythms. My own questions.
Reading pulls me back into the wider landscape of language. It reminds me that there are many ways to hold a sentence. Many ways to approach truth. Many different paces a voice can take.
Sometimes what I need most isn’t instruction, but orientation — a reminder of what feels possible.
I Read for Permission, Not Technique
I rarely read with a pen in hand anymore.
I read to notice how it feels to be with a piece of writing. Where I soften. Where I breathe differently. Where something loosens inside me.
The books that matter most to me aren’t necessarily the ones that are clever or tightly structured. They’re the ones that give me permission to write in a way that feels more honest, more spacious, more my own.
They say, quietly: You can do it like this.
I Read Outside My Current Project
When I’m not writing, I tend to read things that don’t resemble what I’m working on at all.
Poetry when I’m drafting prose.
Essays when I’m circling a story.
Spiritual writing when I’m thinking structurally.
This isn’t avoidance — it’s nourishment.
Reading outside the shape of my current work keeps me from closing in on myself. It widens the field. It prevents my voice from becoming too tight, too effortful.
I Read When Words Feel Distant
There are seasons when writing feels far away. Not blocked — just quiet.
In those times, I don’t force my way back to the page. I read instead.
Reading becomes a way of staying in relationship with language without demanding anything from it. No output. No result. Just presence.
Often, without trying, something begins to stir again.
Why It Matters
Because writing isn’t only made at the desk.
It’s made in the slow accumulation of sentences that moved us.
In the moments we recognised ourselves in someone else’s words.
In the reminder that language is alive — and that we’re allowed to meet it gently.
When I return to writing after reading, I come back softened, not sharpened. Less urgent. More attentive.
And that, for me, is where the truest work begins.
A small invitation
If you’d like to turn this into a writing moment:
Write for five minutes about what you’re drawn to read when you’re not writing — and what it gives you that writing sometimes cannot.
You don’t need to analyse it. Just notice.