What It Feels Like to Write in a World Where Reading Feels Rare

There are moments when I sit with something I’ve written—something I actually feel proud of—and instead of thinking about how good it is, I catch myself wondering something else entirely.

Who is really going to read this?

Not scroll past it.
Not double tap it.
Not skim the first few lines and move on.

But actually sit with it.

Actually read it.

And that question doesn’t come from insecurity the way people might think. It comes from awareness.

Because I’m looking at a world that moves fast… and realizing I chose to create something that requires people to slow down.

I don’t come from a space where reading is celebrated the way other things are.

Where I’m from, people scroll.
They follow trends.
They keep up with what everybody else is doing.

Drama moves faster than any story I could ever write.

And honestly… I get it.

Why sit with fiction when real life is playing out in real time, right in your hand?

But somewhere in all of that—between the scrolling and the noise—I still find something different when I sit down to write.

Something quieter.

Something that asks for imagination instead of reaction.

And every time I finish a piece, there’s this small, stubborn hope sitting with me—

Maybe today is the day someone actually reads it.

 I know why I want to write.

And the reason I want to write is the same reason it matters to me that my work is actually read.

Yes, I have stories in my head that I want to share with the world.

But it’s deeper than that.

I want to leave something behind.

Something my kids—and their kids—can come back to and find a piece of me in.

A thought I had.
A moment I felt.
Something I cared enough about to put into words.

Like a footprint in the sand walking next to them.

They won’t see me.

But I’ll still be there.

Reading in today’s world means more than it used to.

It’s not something people just do anymore—it’s a choice.

A choice to slow down.
A choice to focus.
A choice to use your imagination instead of just reacting to what’s in front of you.

And lately, I’ve been thinking about that differently.

Watching a parent slowly lose pieces of their memory makes you realize how important it is to keep your mind active while you still can.

Reading isn’t just entertainment.

It’s exercise.

It’s presence.

It’s using a part of yourself that the world doesn’t always ask for anymore.

And when I sit down to write, I’m doing both.

I’m creating the story… and I’m reading it at the same time.

I get to watch it unfold just like my readers would.

And sometimes I think about my mother.

About how much I wish she could sit down and read something I wrote now.

I think she would be proud.

Not just of the story—but of the fact that I finished something.

Something that takes focus.

Something that takes patience.

Something that, for her, has become harder and harder to do.

And maybe that’s when it really hit me—

Maybe the missing art isn’t writing.

Maybe it’s reading.

And maybe the real story isn’t just what we write—but who still takes the time to read it.